



































































Jf 








“TIMBER” 












“TIMBER” 


By HAROLD TITUS 

ii 


Author of 

“1 Conquered” “Bruce of the Circle A” 
“The Last Straw ” etc . 



A. L. BURT COMPANY 
Publishers New York 

Published by arrangement with Small, Maynard & Company 
Printed in U. S. A. 




COPYRIGHT, 1922 

BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 


Second Printing April, 1922 
Third Printing, December, 1922 


50 


Printed in the United States of America 


“TIMBER” 


CHAPTER I 

A white Florida moon hung low over the river, flanked, 
for Luke Taylor and his son John, by a yellow pine and 
a moss-bearded oak. The night was mild and young John 
was dressed in summer clothing, but Luke sat drawn into 
his mink-lined overcoat, as if the outlook from the wide 
verandah of his winter home were of the bleak north 
instead of the edge of the tropics. His withered hands lay 
on the arm of the wicker chair and his cold eyes stared 
straight before him. 

“So you think I owe you that, do you?” 

John shifted uneasily and ran a big white hand through 
his light hair. 

“You see, father, if Fm to have an even start with other 
men of my — sort, it's necessary. ” 

Luke grunted skeptically. 

“Of course I could start out now and find a job, go to 
work for some of my friends who are no better equipped 
to hold an advantage over me than I am over them, but 
who’ve been — who’ve had fathers who helped them. ” 

“You mean it's work you don’t want?” Luke asked, 
still watching the river. 

“Of course not; I’m not afraid of work, but I don’t 
want to put in the best years of my life grubbing when I 
might be building.” 

“A flying start — that’s what you want, eh?” 

1 


2 


TIMBER 


Luke’s blue eyes swung to his son and studied the 
young face 

“ That’s it.” 

“Hum, a flyin’ start! And I suppose that’s what all you 
young bucks ’re looking for now. You don’t want to grub 
out a foundation; you want that done for you.” 

The old man drew a long breath. 

“We never thought of them things,” he said with a 
hint of bitterness. “ The start I got — 7- an’ I was younger 
than you are now — was standin’ to my waist in the 
Saginaw, with th’ river gone mad with ice an’ logs. 
That wa’n’t much like a flyin’ start. It was hard toil, 
until th’ water warmed an’ the last log was in the boom. 
Then it was a summer in th’ mills and w T hen the snow 
came, back to th’ woods again. Five — Six? Devil 
himself knows how many years, we didn’t count years 
then; not lads my age. There was time a-plenty. Harmon 
put me to head th’ drive; then I was woods boss, an’ later 
he made me walkin’ boss for five camps. Come next fall 
he took my savin’s, and what they bought give me my 
chance to buy pine of my own — Pine!” He spoke the 
word as if it should be capitalized. He sighed. 

“From then on it was a fight against debt an’ rivers an’ 
men. I’d learned about men an’ rivers when I was dryin’ 
my socks around some other man’s stove. I had to learn 
about debt myself, an’ that was all. I did learn, an’ I 
made money, I did things that even old Harmon was 
afraid to do. I took what other men thought was chances 
an’ made big on ’em; but they wasn’t chances. I knew 
that, because I knew about men an’ rivers, an’ debt — 
finally. ” 

“You surely — ,” began John. 


TIMBER 


3 


“Wait! It aint just the amblin’ of an old man. I’m 
goin’ some place. For a long time you’ve been fixin’ 
for this. I know,” nodding fiercely. “I’ve watched an* 
waited to see when you’d screw up your nerve. ” 

John stirred uneasily, but his father proceeded. 

“An’ what did all that work an’ knowledge mean? It 
meant a fortune!” Within the house a man with sleek 
black hair spoke quietly into a desk telephone, and Luke 
jerked his head toward him. “Rowe, there, can tell you 
how much it is. I don’t even pay attention to that, now. 
I used to keep my own books, used to be proud to figure 
that fortune — no longer!” 

He shook his head and the old mouth set grimly. 

“I’d give it all, every dollar, every cent; give my credit 
to the last dime to be back there again with an’ ice-cold 
river huggin’ my legs an’ a peavy in my hand, gettin’ my 
start, learnin’ about men an’ timber an’ wonderin’ about 
debt. I read the other day about a doctor that makes 
men young. Paper talk! But if it was true, if he could 
make me young again, I’d want to leave all I’ve made 
with the old shell and go back to th’ beginning once more 
with nothin’ but my hands.” He eyed his old palms, 
protruding from the sleeves of the overcoat. “Only — 
steady hands. ” 

Luke again looked at the moon, now edging toward the 
pine trees. 

“But there’s nothin’ to go back to, nothin’ I care about! 
Th’ Pine that made me dream dreams when I was 
drivin’ the Saginaw ’s gone. No Michigan White Pine 
left, which was the only White Pine worth th’ name! 
Western — yes; mixed stands; it ain’t the real old 
quality; not th’ cork.” He shook his head. “An’ such 


4 


TIMBER 


as that!” a contemptuous gesture toward the plume into 
which the moon drifted, “counterfeit pine ! ” He breathed 
audibly through his open mouth and turned to glare at 
his son who sat motionless. 

‘‘ Counterfeit! So’s my life! They tell me it was th’ 
weeks in cold water that drives me down here when the 
geese comes over Detroit, an’ keeps me here until the ice 
is out of the Great Lakes. They tell me it’s th’ cold of 
Michigan rivers that’s in my bones now. It ain’t! I know 
what it is!” He wriggled deeper into his fur coat, mutter- 
ing inarticulately. 

“It’s somethin’ else that’s gone, boy. It’s the Pine! 
You young bucks ain’t what we were. There’s nothin’ to 
make your blood jump like a White Pine forest did mine! 
If I could lose every penny even now, old as I am, but 
could walk through a stand of real Michigan timber 
again, I wouldn’t be cold. Them days, I could sink my 
axe to th’ eye every blow; with a saw gang, I could finish 
my fifteen thousand a day, an’ th’ days were short, too. 
There was somethin’ in that, which you bucks can’t 
know. Pine! Pine, standin’ there, straight an’ true, trees 
thick as hair on a dog, waitin’ for good men to come an’ 
get it!” 

He seemed to shrink in size as his voice fell. 

“Gad! It warms me to think about goin’ into Pine 
again! Not to make money!” with a sudden cry. “To 
cut! To drive! To saw it! To see a forest all about you 
when th’ snow flies an’ to know that when winter breaks 
up there’ll be sections with nothin’ left but tops an* 
stumps on ’em; to know that it’s your hands an’ your 
men’s hands that’ll do it! There’s power in that, boy, 
because logs build homes an’ homes build nations! 


TIMBER 


5 


“Some flap-doodle old women are callin’ us destroyers 
and devastators! What was timber for? They use it, 
don’t they, while they yell about what we’ve done! They 
sob about th’ next generation, but why th’ hell should we 
care about what’s cornin’? Didn’t Michigan Pine build 
th’ corn belt? An’ where’d this country be without its 
grain lands now? Didn’t Michigan Pine build cities that 
make the country wealthy? Hump! What’s th’ next 
generation to me? Every generation has its work to do. 
Anyhow look at yourself! Bah! you want to commence 
to learn some business from th’ top down. You want to 
put on th’ cornice before you’ve got the foundation in, 
because you don’t want th’ rough work. You’re the kind 
that these old women are worrying over. I tell you, boy, 
you an’ your like don’t deserve worry from anybody, even 
from an old woman in pants. ” 

“That’s unfair!” John half rose as he said it, and color 
rushed into his face. 

“This has been corked up in me too long now!” His 
son settled back. “Unfair, am I? If you think that’s 
unfair, wait till I get through! You come to me for what 
you call a start, an’ what my daddy would call a finish. 
You, with your six feet, your hunderd-eighty pounds of 
youth, your strong back an’ good eye, an’ a better educa- 
tion than any of us ever had; you who’re fitted for harder 
work than any of us, an’ now you don’t want to muss up 
your hands!” 

“You don’t consider one thing, sir,” John cried. “You 
blame me for not doing the way your generation did, and 
you don’t stop to think that this is no longer your gen- 
eration.” 

“I don’t, eh? I don’t consider that? You don’t con- 


6 


TIMBER 


aider then, young man, that Fm not only toyin' to give 
you hell but to include your whole generation, if you're 
a sample of it. Listen to me!” wriggling erect again. 
“I come up on a Pennsylvania farm with never enough 
to wear, an' sometimes not enough to eat. I worked from 
th’ time I can remember. When I went to school it was 
because there was no work to do. You come up in a house 
that when it was built was th’ finest in all Detroit. You 
had more clothes in your first ten years than I’d had 
before you were born. What was spent on your grub in 
one month would’ve kept my brothers an’ sisters a year, 
an’ I’ve lost track how many of us there was. You never 
did a tap for yourself from th’ time your mother turned 
you over to a nurse girl until you went to college, an’ then 
you lived in a club with a nigger to look after you. You’ve 
gone through all the schools there are, an’ what I spent 
on you would’ve educated my school district.” 

He tapped the arm of his chair with a trembling hand. 
“When you got out of college, I sort of thought maybe 
you’d start in an’ help th’ old man out, you bein’ th’ only 
child,” a mild disappointment in the tone. “Anyhow, 
I thought — But you didn’t. I had to have somebody, 
so I hired Rowe. He knows how to work; not like I did, 
not with an axe of course, but with his head. Work’s all 
pretty much the same. He’s a good boy, but sometimes 
it grinds me to think I have to turn my affairs over to 
some other man’s son to run. You’re as strong as I ever 
was; you know about things that I never heard of,” 
voice rising — “But I’m through! I’m goin’ on th’ 
back trail again. Now — you talk!” and from histone 
it was certain that he added in his own thoughts, “If you 
dare!” 


TIMBER 


7 


Young John dared. He rose slowly, and stood looking 
down at his father, feet spread, hands in pockets of his 
smart coat. 

“That’s the hardest ride I’ve ever taken, ” he said. “It 
wasn’t very pleasant, I wouldn’t have stood it this way if 
I thought you understood. You don’t.” 

Luke grunted. “If I had been a young man in your 
generation, I’d have started as you did, because that was 
the way all men began. It was backs and brains that made 
money then. It isn’t that way now.” 

“What makes money, then?” 

“Money.” Luke eyed his son who waited a moment 
before going on: “Money makes money. The man with 
money makes money. The man who starts without it 
now is under as much of a handicap as you would have 
been if your back had been weak. Your father gave you 
your back to start with. The fathers of sons today give 
them money to make a beginning. I don’t consider, then, 
when I ask you to set me up, that I am asking any more 
than you expected in your time. A different sort of favor, 
but it’s no greater. ” 

The old man snuggled down into his chair. 

“Well?” 

“ That’s — that’s all, sir. ” 

One withered hand tapped the chair arm testily. 

“If I give you money, how do I know you have got 
sense enough to use it to make more? What’ve you ever 
done ? ” 

John shifted one foot slowly. 

“Well I was a captain in — ” 

“Don’t make me laugh; I’ve got a stitch in my side. 
Captain in the Quartermaster Corps, eh? An’ what else? ” 


8 


TIMBER 


“ There hasn’t been time for much else.” 

“Time! Good God, boy, you’ve been out of th’ army 
most a year! What’ve you done with that year? Tame 
women? Yes. Hump! From where I sit you seem to be a 
pretty capable Turk, or maybe it’s my money they want 
— like you want it. Do you lisr that with your refer- 
ences? Your luck with these flossy young petticoats?” 
The boy flushed so deeply that it was evident even in the 
dim light. “An’ this little wisp of goldenrod, she seems 
to have run th’ others out. I s’pose you think I owe her 
something. ” 

“I owe Marcia something. That much is true.” 

“Our women used to put up with hardships, shoulder 
to shoulder. ” 

“Our women don’t do that, they are a different breed.” 

Inside, a telephone bell whirred. 

“Yes, a different breed. You said it there; different. 
Like you bucks are different.” Luke nodded sagely; his 
mouth was shut, letting his loose cheeks sag over the 
corners. “You want it in a hurry; all that matters is the 
reward. The race don’t mean anything.” 

A sudden resentment rang in that tone. John stirred 
uneasily. He did not speak, nor did the old man’s lips 
relax. The telephone called again, then steps on the 
rug, and Philip Rowe crossed the room hurriedly. They 
heard his voice. 

“Yes, this is Mr. Taylor’s residence — No — This is 
Mr. Taylor’s secretary speaking.” 

“Secretary!” snorted Luke. 

“Give me the message please, — all ready — ” 

And from Luke: “Bookkeeper! Bookkeeper! They’ve 
all got their notions.” 


.TIMBER 


9 


The French doors were open and John Taylor did not 
care to continue his discussion under the ears of the sleek 
Rowe who was writing hurriedly on a pad. When he was 
through he stood up and read what he had written, strok- 
ing his small mustache thoughtfully. Luke roused and 
strained to look over his shoulder. 

“For me, Rowe?” 

“Yes, Mr. Taylor. A telegram from McLellan. I will 
frame an answer.” 

He had stepped outside, the paper in his hand. His 
voice was slow, even and assured. 

“What was it?” 

“About the Blueberry hardwood.” 

“Oh!” Luke sat back, rubbing his nose with a knuckle. 
“He’s looked it up?” 

“Yes, sir. There are about three hundred thousand feet 
left.” 

“Three hunderd thousand!” He looked at Rowe with 
a decided glitter of rage. The secretary returned the stare 
and shook his head slowly. After a moment Luke’s gaze 
wandered as he again rubbed his sharp nose with a thin 
knuckle. It came to rest on his son’s face, enigmatic, 
speculative. His lips worked.i 

“Three hunderd thousand of hardwood logs,” he 
mumbled, “an’ the price of lumber gone hog-wild — eh!” 

He settled back and his hands, palms up, lay relaxed on 
the chair arms. A queer smile played around his mouth 
and the wrath died in his eyes. 

*“Boy, a man’s never so apt to be wrong as when he’s 
too sure,” he began. Rowe started to withdraw, but Luke’s 
gesture stayed him. “I don’t want to be wrong on this. 

I — ; John an’ me, Rowe, have been talkin’ business. ^ He’sj 


TIMBER 


10 

decided it's time he does something to make his — 
fortune,” dryly. “We’ve had a little argument, which 
didn’t get us much of anywhere. John calculates I owe 
him somethin’, and mebby I do — after hearing what 
he’s had to say to me tonight.” There was a streak of 
grit in the tone, as though he repressed some strong 
impulse. “He wants a start, a flyin’ start — somethin’ 
he can turn over quick, an’ not have to monkey along at 
hard work and spend the years I did — ” He licked his 
lips and, before his disconcerting manner, John stirred 
uneasily. 

“John’s got a better education than I ever had. He’s 
more sure of himself than I was at his age. He thinks I 
don’t understand him, an’ mebby I don’t. ” He wheezed 
an odd laugh and rubbed his nose briskly. “Ah-he! 
There’s nothin’ so likely to upset a man as bein’ too 
sure. 

“Son,” sobering and stirring in his chair, “logs are 
worth money today. Three hundred thousand of hard- 
wood’s worth what I’d have called a lot of money. How’d 
that suit you, if I give you this three hundred thousand for 
your start — so’s you wouldn’t have to grub along, so’s 
you’d have it plumb easy compared to what I had?” 

The secretary’s head made a slight forward movement, 
as in surprise, but Luke’s face betrayed nothing, except a 
grim settling of the mouth; Rowe then looked at John and 
the boy thought a smirk crossed his lips. 

“You can make out the papers, Rowe, an’ throw in that 
forty,” said the old man. “You can do it tomorrow, 
can’t you?” 

“Yes, sir, the first thing in the morning.” 

Silence for a moment; Rowe walked away, and as he 


TIMBER 


11 


crossed the room inside his head rocked back, as though, 
perhaps, he laughed to himself. 

Young Taylor watched him go and then turned to his 
father. 

“Logs?” he asked, rather bewildered. “Why, I don’t 
know saw-logs from — ” 

“From bumble-bees,” Luke finished for him with anger 
in his voice — and a smile in his eyes. “But, mebby 
your fortune’s there, in them logs, boy. I’d ’a jumped at a 
gift like that — You’ve heard about logs all your life; 
likely you know more about logs than you do anything 
else — Well, there’s your chance. Take it or leave it. 
— Course, think it over; think it over. There ain’t any 
rush as far as I can judge by th’ way you put in your 
time — Now run along, I got all stirred up, talkin’ about 
Michigan Pine. Think it over, I’d say it was a hand- 
some start — ” 

For a moment their gazes met, and apprehension ran 
through the younger man. for he did not like the sort of 
smile that clung to his father’s eyes; did not like the for- 
bidding set of his mouth. 

“Very well, sir; I will think it over,” he said, trying to 
cram his reply with dignity, and walked inside. 

John stood before a mirror in the library, studying his 
own reflection. He did not like this, it struck at his con- 
ceit; it was distasteful, but there had been something else 
in his father’s manner beside subtle derision — a chal- 
lenge, perhaps. He sat down to think it over. 


CHAPTER II 


John Taylor was so absorbed that he did not hear the 
motor car come up the drive and stop at the side of the 
house. Philip Rowe was just leaving, light coat over his 
arm, when the headlights swung in from the street and 
blinded him. He stood on the step until the car stopped. 

“ Hello, Phil.” It was a girl’s voice, crisp and clear. 

“Marcia?” He stepped forward and put out his hand. 

“Is John here?” she asked, and added, “I have an 
engagement with him. ” j 

The interval before Rowe replied was long enough to. 
imply disappointment." 

“He’s in the house now — unfortunately!” 

“Flatterer! Tonight I — ” 

“You what?” 

“Came for John — ” 

“And what else? What were you going to say?” 

He moved nearer so he could see her face, dimly revealed 
by the dash light. She drew back, showing her very white 
teeth. 

“Nothing at all,” she laughed lowly, and when he gave 
a breath of only half-pretended dejection, she whispered: 
“I came for John — tonight! ” 

Rowe looked quickly into the house, then made as if 
to open the car door, but the girl’s hand flew out to hold 
the latch fast. 

“Please, Phil!”. 


12 


TIMBER 


13 


Their gazes held a moment, bright with insinuating 
lights. Then Rowe bowed. 

“Very well,” he said, and entered the house to summon 
young Taylor. 

When John appeared Rowe was walking out the drive 
toward the street, very erect, with confidence in the sway 
of his shoulders. The girl had been watching him. 

Taylor spoke slowly to Marcia Murray and smiled and 
slouched down beside her, showing an ease that was some- 
thing more than familiarity with this one girl. There are 
men who never can be comfortable in the presence of any 
woman, who must always be self-conscious even before 
the mothers of their children; these are the men who are 
failures with women and who are secretly afraid and 
consciously inferior. On the other extreme are the men 
whose glances at women are always penetrating and never 
very curious; they have the assurance which makes for 
easy acquaintanceships that they take lightly and which 
thrill their gentler parties; they are at once fond and 
scornful of women, and know that the one does not live 
who can blind them to her weaknesses; they like to see 
this deception tried simply to give them justification for 
bringing some presumptuous female to humiliation. The 
chief difference between these two types of men is that 
now and again the former is surprised by having a triumph 
forced on him; quite often the latter is bewildered by a 
defeat. John Taylor belonged to the second group. 

The car swung out to the street. 

“Where away?” John asked. 

She did not respond to his smile. 

“You are worried,” she said. 

“Not much.” 


TIMBER 


14 

f 

“But some!” 

“Yes.” 

“Want to talk?” 

“More than anything else.” 

She turned along the car tracks, reached a small foot 
for the accelerator and they leaped ahead, 

“Now talk to me,” she said. 

“I’d rather just look at you. ” 

She lifted her chin. “An unfair advantage! My eyes 
are on the road. ” 

“So’s your mind. When we’re somewhere else, I’ll 
talk.” 

She dropped one hand from the wheel to pat his knee 
swiftly and flashed a smile at him. Then she kept busy 
with driving, while Taylor took his unfair advantage. 

Marcia Murray was small and very trim. Her hair, 
even in the cold light of the arc under which they swept, 
was a glorious yellow. Luke had called her a wisp of 
goldenrod and John knew the old man had been half 
contemptuous; now the words came back to him and his 
throat contracted. She was just that; a stalk of golden- 
rod, fragile, slight, lovely. Her little features were sharp, 
eyes large and heavy-lashed. The silken legs stretching 
for clutch and brake were as gently moulded as her fine 
hands on the wheel. 

They left town and swept along the paved drive through 
scattered yellow pines where the moonlight bathed the 
girl and made John’s heart leap — She was so like a 
cameo! He could conjure all manner of delightful things 
to say of her — And then thejr slowed where the road 
swung to the right and she let the car roll from pavement 
to turf beneath great oaks that dripped moss with the 


TIMBER 


15 


river again before them spattered by the super white 
moonlight. The engine stopped and upon them burst the 
cries of millions of night bodies, a shrill, sustained chorus, 
a metallic trill. A wind rippled the stream and moon- 
beams flashed from it, like rays from mirrors. A bunch of 
coots, sleeping on the water, showed black not fifty yards 
from them. 

Marcia leaned forward and switched off the dash light; 
her slim, very cool hand found Taylor’s. 

“Now what?” she said gravely — and Taylor told 
what had taken place with his father; told it, mostly, 
looking straight into her eyes, which looked back at him, 
wide, understanding and patient, but when he finished 
his narrative of what had happened and turned his 
gaze out on the river, the girl’s eyes narrowed ever so 
slightly, and a look that was not patience showed there. 

“My father’s a queer old bird,” he went on. “He’s 
never understood me. He’s never seemed to have much 
interest in me, especially since I went away to college; 
never stinted me in allowance and never crabbed because 
I didn’t settle down, but there hasn’t been much in 
common — except that we’re father and son. I hadn’t 
intended to put it up to him quite this way, but he forced 
my hand. He doesn’t like the notion of any one getting 
anything without sweating for it, he doesn’t like to have 
any one have opinions of his own — Logs are worth a 
lot of money, I know, but this isn’t a marker to what I’d 
expected he would do for me. He knows, as well as I know, 
that it won’t fill the bill and give me any sort of a start. 
I’ve thought it over and the only answer I can find is that 
he wants to see what I am wound on. ” 

“And if you make good on this — ?” 


16 


TIMBER 


“Then he might come across properly. ” 

The girl put a hand to his shoulder and shook him. 

“Then you will, John! You have everything to gain, 
nothing to lose. ” 

He nodded. “That’s about the size of it. I don’t want 
that sort of start, I’ve had my share of roughing it in 
the army; but it’s only for a few weeks and it’s a good 
gamble — if I make good. ” 

“Of course you will,” Marcia said. 

Taylor turned toward her impulsively and put both 
arms around her small body, looking down into her moon- 
lit face. 

“Will you go with me, Marcia?” he asked. 

“Go with you? You mean — ?” 

He nodded. “Marry me now. Let’s start together. 
Let’s begin as though this really were the beginning, and 
we were going to make a fortune by the strength of my 
back — Marcia, will you?” \ 

His voice was unsteady with eagerness and he drew her 
closer, struggling to hold her face to the moonlight, but 
she ducked it out of his sight, buried it against his shoulder 
and he felt a shudder travel her body. 

“Marcia!” 

“Don’t, John!” 

“Marcia, what is it?” He forced her chin upward and 
called her name again when he saw tears in her eyes. 
“What is it?” 

She shook her head and pressed knuckles against her 
lips, looking away. “It’s the same thing you tried to 
explain to your father, ” she whispered, voice husky, words 
rapid. “Don’t you see that, John? Don’t you see that 
to begin that way is asking something of me that you have 


TIMBER 


17 


tried to avoid yourself? ” He murmured contritely as she 
went on. “ I’m no more fitted to begin life as a poor man’s 
wife than you are to — to work with your back! It 
isn’t in me, dear. I feel small, mean and inferior. You’ve 
been so big and fine to me; I know you need me, but I’m 
thinking of the future. I don’t want to mar our happiness 
by a bad beginning. I want to be with you. I’d give any- 
thing if I could marry you now and go into the woods with 
you. But what is a girl to do?” She held out a hand in 
query, which disengaged his close embrace. “I can’t 
break away from the environment of my whole life, can I? 
After I’ve been schooled to tastes for beautiful things, 
after I’ve been taught to think that nothing is worth 
while, which is ugly, I’m not wholly to blame if I find my 
ideas fixed, am I? ” 

“ Don’t, Marcia! It’s all such nonsense to be miserable 
over this. ” 

“But I am! Don’t you see that the two strongest 
impulses in my life are coming into conflict tonight? On 
one side is my love for you, on the other my unfitness to 
live a life that is cramped by the lack of money. I’ve been 
on the ragged edge of want ever since I can remember! 
Here I was with girls for friends who knew no scrimping, 
no ugliness, being taught to devote my whole soul to things 
that they thought were worth while, and, of course, things 
that only money could buy. And I lived in a home — 
Why, John, you and I never would have been here tonight 
if we hadn’t established the practice of renting the apart- 
ment winters. Papa takes a room and mama and I come 
up here. We couldn’t do it unless we leased the place we 
live in most of the year. We’re here now because we had 
to rent until the middle of April this time! I have a car 


18 


TIMBER 


at the cost of a thousand little privations. I have clothes 
while my mother darns my father’s underwear!” 

“Oh, it’s been awful! But what could I do? I was not 
trained to work; I was not trained to undergo humiliation 
and hardships. I was — ” 

“And you won’t have to!” he broke in savagely. “I 
was a fool to ask this of you tonight. I was carried 
away; that’s all! I’ll go out and do things for you, Marcia. 
I can pioneer as well as my father pioneered, for a little 
while. I will show him that I can work, as he worked, if 
necessary. I’ll make him regret what he said to me 
and when I do that, I’ll bring comfort to you, sweetheart! 
You’re right! Your training has been right! Money and 
what it will bring is all that matters. How you get it, 
even, doesn’t count any more, unless you’re a downright 
thief. It’s dog eat dog and the weak man lose! I hate to 
grub. I hate to make a mean, slow beginning, but it’s my 
father’s way. He doesn’t care about money, but he doesn’t 
care about me particularly, either. If I can make him like 
me by taking up this offer — it won’t be long, Marcia, it 
won’t be long!” 

She yielded to his embrace again, and lifted her tear- 
wet face to his. One arm crept about his shoulders and lay 
there — like the caressing tendril of a flower — or the 
binding tendril of a creeper; and her eyes, on a distant 
star, narrowed again, though they were still wet, as she 
drew his face into the hollow of her soft throat. 

“I feel like a rotter,” he said. “I’ve come up short 
against the collar, when I thought there was no limit to the 
leash. I’ve been doing you an injustice, been wasting our 
youth, when we should have every hour together. I’ve 
been keeping you in this damned uncomfortable situation 


TIMBER 


19 


you have at home, while I dawdled. Now I'm through!” 

“ I knew I could trust you, ” she breathed, and though 
the voice was very gentle and sweet it possessed a quality 
which indicated that she had arrived at that trust only 
after difficulties — and perhaps she was not yet sure. 
It made the man start and repeat his promise, lips against 
her cheek, determination hot and not to be questioned. 

Their hands met in a clasp of good will, and Taylor 
again pressed his kisses upon her lips and throat, and all 
the time her eyes were open, fixed on space, as though 
she listened for some word, waited for some thought — 
unshaken by his burst of passion. 

They drove home slowly, John at the wheel, Marcia 
snuggled against him, her arm over his shoulder. Halfway 
in she said: 

“ John, don’t you sometimes think Phil Rowe is awfully 
close to your father? Almost dangerously close?” 

“Dangerously?” he asked with an idle laugh. “I think 
Phil’s safe enough. ” 

“I don’t mean that — Dangerously for you. He 
seems to have a better grasp on your father’s affairs than 
any one.” 

“Oh, I see — Of course, father leaves all the details to 
him, and Phil’s a mighty competent chap for an 
underling. ” 

“He doesn’t strike me as an underling.” 

John chuckled. “He calls himself father’s secretary, 
which of course he is. Father — insists on calling him 
his bookkeeper.” 

Marcia’s laugh was most perfunctory. “He’s the sort 
of chap who would take a lot of ridicule and wait for the 
last laugh. He — seems so tenacious. ” 


20 


TIMBER 


“That’s the sort father needs.” 

“Perhaps.” A pause. “When you are away, he even 
answers your letters, doesn’t he? He has told me that.” 
“Father never writes to me.” i 

“But he spoke as if your father didn’t even dictate] 
them; as though he had even the responsibility of giving ! 
answers to his employer’s son.” h 

The motor speeded as John’s foot unconsciously pressed 
the accelerator. 

“He does have a good deal of authority — ” 

Two hours later, John Taylor walked thoughtfully up 
the drive and let himself in the carriage door. His father 
and mother were sitting in the library, his mother reading 
the newspaper aloud to Luke. She took off her glasses 
when John came in. j 

After a moment old Luke looked up and it struck the 
boy that his eye was cold, not at all as it usually appeared 
when he talked to Philip Rowe. 

“Father, I’ve decided to go north right away,” John 
said almost casually. “The sooner I am on the job, the 
sooner I’ll make my start. I want to thank you again. ” | 
His mother made a little flutter of pleasure, but Luke 
did not stir. 

He spat in the general direction of the fire and rolled a 
skeptical eye at his wife. 

“Son, when you get on the job, think about thanks.” 
There was something subtly derisive in his manner. 


CHAPTER III 


John Taylors good intentions to become active at 
once lasted until he reached Detroit. There he dawdled a 
week with his friend Dick Mason and other pals, and it 
was not until one afternoon when he telephoned McLellan, 
his father's attorney, that he was stirred to action again. 

“Mr. McLellan, this is John Taylor — Yes — Oh, 
several days — On my way to White's camp to look 
after logs that are there — Father gave them to me, and 
I thought — " 

“Gave them to you!" came a rather startled voice. 
“What for?" 

“A dowry!" 

“You mean, you're going to try to do something with 
them?" 

“ Of course, " vaguely alarmed by the tone. “ I thought 
perhaps you had some suggestions." 

A pause. 

“By George. I haven't a suggestion to my back, John! 
You know the situation of course. " 

“Why — yes, " hesitantly. 

“All right. Help you out if I can; good-bye." 

The situation? McLellan's voice had been rather 
dumbfounded. What situation? And his father's warning 
to withhold his thanks until he saw the logs — Rowe’s 
smile when Luke first proposed the gift. 

He did not like it; there was something here which 
alarmed him. 


21 


22 


TIMBER 


There was to have been a party that night, with wine 
smuggled from Canada, but John did not wait. He pre- 
pared to leave in a mad rush, missed the last train by 
minutes, and on Dick Mason’s advice bought a ticket for 
Pancake, clear across the country from the logs. He could 
drive in, however, and save a day. 

And so on April 5, 1920, a sleepy porter put John off 
at Pancake, Michigan, in the gray mist of morning. 

Taylor had seen such towns as this on trips to Windigo 
Lodge, Dick Mason’s fishing retreat on the Au Sable, 
hopeless little towns in the back- wash of progress. It had 
a main street of sand, now black and rutted by spring 
rains, wooden sidewalks, false-fronted stores built of wood. 
It boasted a court house pathetically struggling to set 
itself up with a measure of distinction with iron stamped 
to indicate red brick for sheeting, and zinc cornices of 
extravagant design. Beyond was the Commercial House 
with its sign nearly weathered away. The bank was of 
pressed brick and very tiny. The front windows of the 
office of the Blueberry Banner were broken and patched 
with yellowing newsprint. There was a livery stable with 
a high-stepping wooden horse hung in front, and beneath 
the enthusiastic equine a board painted with a word 
indicative of the influence which had deposed him from 
his once important estate: Garage. 

Other thoroughfares branched from First Street and 
as Taylor walked toward the hotel he could see the dwell- 
ings that fronted on them. Here and there was one which 
pretended to be something, with a tower on one corner 
and gingerbread work dripping from the porches, but 
others were boxes only and needed paint, while numbers 
had never known garnishment of any sort Beyond these 


TIMBER 


23 


the quality and number both frayed out until off toward 
the jack pine which grew thinly over the country were the 
weather-beaten tar-paper houses of the Michigan pine 
barrens. 

One other passenger had arrived with John, he noticed, 
when halfway across the street. This was a big man with 
a broad-brimmed hat, an unbuttoned coat, showing a 
heavy watch chain and charm. His eyes were blue and 
sunny, his skin rough and red, mouth large. He emanated 
good nature and when he said by way of greeting, “We 
should grab the worm this morning, neighbor,” John 
grinned and remarked that they were early enough. 

No one was astir on the street, though every chimney 
belched breakfast smoke. Within the office of the Com- 
mercial House a gaunt man, smoking a pale cigar, was 
putting wood in the base burner as John and his 
companion entered. 

“Hello, Jim,” he said to the big man, coughing from 
his cigar smoke. 

“Morning, Henry. Every little thing settin’ pretty?” 

“Sure is.” 

Henry rattled the stove dampers, while Jim dropped 
his bag and walked behind the desk. John noticed that 
this fixture was a portion of an old bar and that the floor 
before it was pitted with innumerable fine holes, the marks 
left by boots of rivermen, gone now, like the timber and 
the saloons. Jim took a packet of letters from a shelf 
behind the desk and rummaged through them, sorting 
those that were for him. Then he retired to a chair by the 
stove and began opening envelopes. The proprietor — 
the man with the cigar — went behind the desk, slapping 
his hands together to cleanse them. 


24 


TIMBER 


“Do you wish accommodations?” he asked in a low 
voice, evidently desiring to leave Jim undisturbed with 
his mail. 

“Breakfast, anyhow; probably that will be all.” John 
signed the register. The other looked at his signature. 
“Fd like to get out to White’s camp today. Maybe you 
can tell me who’ll take me. ” 

The man shook his head. 

“Ain't been up in th’ hardwood all winter, ” he confessed 
still in that half tone. “When he gets through with his 
mail,” — a nod toward Jim — “Mr. Harris can tell you. 
He knows.” 

“What? What’s that?” Harris looked up from his 
letter. 

“This man wants to get to White’s camp, Jim.” 

Harris removed his gold-rimmed eye-glasses and looked 
more closely at John. Behind the genial quality in that 
gaze was appraisal, a cunning, that Taylor had not sensed 
earlier. 

“Up in Lincoln township,” he said, “away at th’ other 
end of the county. The livery can take you up.” He 
replaced his glasses and shook the fold from the letter he 
read. Then: “White’s gone.” 

“Gone?” startled. 

“ Yup. Camp’s abandoned. Want to see him? ” 

John heard his own voice say: “No, I’m only interested 
in what he’s been doing.” 

His heart sank. If White was gone, where were his logs, 
and how was he to get them out? Or had there ever been 
logs? He wanted to blurt out questions, but he could not; 
this was his business, his first business; and he had been 
so sure that it would all be simple. To ask questions would 


TIMBER 


25 


admit doubt; he would not do that to himself, let alone 
to strangers. 

Harris went on with his mail. Henry puttered quietly. A 
door opened in a few minutes and a blowsy blonde appeared. 

“ Breakfast’s ready, ” said Henry, and Taylor and Harris 
went into the dining room. 

They were the only guests and sat at the same table, 
and Harris, after glancing at the head-lines of a Detroit 
paper, put it aside. He winked at the girl when she put 
butter at bis plate, and she smiled with lumbering coyness. 

“You got back for ’lection, I see, ” she observed. 

“Yup.” 

“Seems like we can’t do nothin’ important without you, 
any more, Mr. Harris. ” 

“Hope you’ll never do anything rash without me!” he 
drawled in his big voice, and the girl giggled with a mix- 
ture of confusion and delight. 

Breakfast came on. John had selected the best from 
the girl’s chant, but Harris had half a grapefruit and, 
later, a palatable-looking steak; neither of these had been 
offered Taylor. 

The two talked in desultory manner. Rain pattered 
the window and passed, and the day brightened. 

The proprietor came into the room. 

“The auto livery is open, Mr. Taylor, ” he said. “Shall 
I tell ’em you want to make a drive?” 

“Thanks, yes.” 

In a moment he looked up to find Harris’ eyes on him 
with a knowing smile. 

“So, you’re young Taylor,” he said and grinned.^ 

“Taylor is my name and I am young.” John smiled; 
this man made one feel comfortable. 


26 


TIMBER 


“ You’re Luke Taylors boy?” 

“I am.” 

"Well well — Who’d thought it!” 

“And how did you know it?” 

“Why you’re a Taylor an’ you’re headed for White’s 
camps to look after those logs, I suppose. Everybody here 
knows the trick that was turned on your daddy. Say, 
Taylor, that was a shame!” shaking his head. “I expect 
your daddy ’ll put the screws on White. ” 

John said nothing; nothing of which he was conscious. 
He mumbled a few words and went back to his breakfast, 
not for nourishment, but for refuge from his own con- 
fusion. A trick, the man had said! Harris talked on, a 
genial ambler in conversation, drifting from logs and 
lumber to an odd assortment of topics, and when they 
left the dining room, they smoked together in the office. 

It was noon before Taylor got under way. Harris took 
him to the garage where a narrow-faced boy wielded a 
wrench over the motor of a decrepit Ford. On the street 
men greeted Harris as good inferiors address a genial 
master. 

“Yes,” the boy said, he would make the trip when he 
had his motor working. 

“If anybody can make her turn over, Lucius is the 
boy, ” said Jim. 

“You Godam know it,” tittered Lucius. 

Harris went his way. “Got to vote,” he explained. 
“If you get over here again be sure and look me up, 
Taylor. ” 

“Who’s Harris?” 

It was the first question John put to his driver as they 


TIMBER 


27 


rattled out of Pancake and took the ruts of the sand road 
that led straight north. 

“ Jim? Oh, he’s lawyer for Chief Pontiac Power. You 
know about th’ dam? No? Hell, they’ve got th’ biggest 
dam in th’ world right here in this county. ” 

“No!” 

“Well, th’ biggest in Michigan — or this part of it 
anyhow,” the youth qualified. “Chief Pontiac Power an’ 
Light put it in ten years ago. They shoot juice clear down 
to them big towns like Saginaw and Flint. Jim, he runs 
things. Fine feller, Jim, an’ he sure makes the dough.” 

Lucius had further praises for Harris, but John paid 
little attention. It was evident that unless he wanted 
continual loquaciousness in his ear it would be well to be 
chary with questions. 

Beyond Pancake was nothing; literally nothing, no 
farms, no houses, no fences. The road was simply two 
deep ruts in the thin June grass sod and red brown moss, 
and wound on interminably across the monotonous 
Michigan pine barrens, or, as the natives call them, the 
plains. Here and there stood patches of jack pine, at 
times many acres in extent. Again it was oak, with some 
sizeable trees and much brush; in other places native 
poplar and balm of Gilead; birch and soft maple rose on 
ridges; in the distance was the blue-green of swamps. All 
about stood stumps, big stumps, close together, rotted by 
time and blackened by fire, ugly and desolate, but marking 
the places where within the generation mighty pine had 
reared their ragged plumes in dignified congregation. The 
same black that was on the stumps was on living trees, 
too; whole halves had been eaten from the butts of oak by 
creeping flames; smaller oaks, fire-killed, stood black and 


28 


TIMBER 


dead, while a clump of fresh brush rose from the living 
roots. Poplar and birch grew up through a tangle of 
punky, brittle trunks that had been trees not so long ago, 
that had given up life before fire and had finally fallen 
among their growing progeny. 

From ridges, Taylor could see miles of this. They 
dropped down into sweeping valleys of the same thing. 
Now and then would be a patch of country with nothing 
but grass among the stumps, and that, in this early month, 
was dead and gray. There were no stones in the road, 
little gravel in sight, and here and there, where the sod 
was broken, yellow sand showed, streaked with black 
where the charcoal of countless ground fires had settled 
into the light soil. In places were lonely Norway pines, 
watchers over this devastation, and occasionally the black- 
ened corpses of mighty trees still reared themselves high, 
without limb or branch, straight, slim and tall, like great 
exclamation points set there to emphasize the ruin that 
was where a forest had been. 

“You from Detroit?” Lucius asked. John assented. 
“ That’s where I am goin’ b’ God. Nothin’ here for a 
young feller; I’m practicin’ up at th’ garage so I can get a 
good job in Detroit. It gets darned awful lonesome, but 
I ain’t got much longer to stay here.” 

“I don’t suppose Pancake is very lively.” 

“Naw! Nolx)dy but old folks an’ little kids there. 
Why, I’m th’ only young feller in town. All th’ rest beat 
it; every mother’s son-of-a-gun. You see,” growing pro- 
found, “ there ain’t nothin’ here to hold us. Up yonder’s 
some hardwood lands, an’ that’s th’ only soil worth a 
damn in th’ county, an’ who wants to farm when you 
can work in a factory? I like the woods myself, but there 


TIMBER 


29 


ain’t any camps any more/ cause they’ve cut all th’stuff off. 

“You bet your life I’m goin’ to Detroit. I’d’a’ went last 
summer but a darn fool warden pinched me an’ I had to 
hang around. Jim Harris got me off, but it took a long 
time. ” 

“ Why did he arrest you?” 

“Oh, I dropped a cigarette out here in summer an’ 
started a fire that run over a little no-account brush — 
thousand acres he said — an’ he held me under the fire 
law. Damn fresh guy, he was, who don’t know no more 
about these here plains than I do about diamon’s. Started 
in arrestin’ everybody that set a fire, an’ got everybodv 
sore on him. ” 

“No use stopping fires, is that it?” 

“Hell, no! He claimed if you kep’ ’em out, trees would 
grow, but we all know damn well fire’ll get in sooner or 
later, an’ that th’ soil’s so poor it won’t grow nothin’ 
nohow. There’s some that says it’ll grow timber again, 
but they’re just plain ignorant.” He laughed. 

“Why, there was a guy named Foraker who used to 
talk a lot about raisin’ timber like a crop. Everybody 
knows he was wrong. He bought a big piece up ahead 
here, ten — twelve thousand acres, an’ spent all he could 
get his hands on tryin’ to grow pine, but it won’t work. 
Everybody knows that. We called him Foolish Foraker 
an’ called his land Foraker’s Folly. He sunk a lot of 
money puttin’ fires out an’ growin’ pine trees to plant.” 

“And they wouldn’t grow?” 

“They won’t grow fast enough! It’d take a thousand 
years to grow trees like them stumps. Oh, they’ve got 
some scraggly little pine up here. Foraker’s dead, but 
his daughter, she lives there. She’s had some swamp land , 


30 


TIMBER 


that kept her goin’, but she’s in debt an’ would have been 
starved out by now, if it wasn’t for the perfessors that 
come in here. ” 

“ Professors?” 

“Yup.” Lucius nodded and laughed. “ They come up 
from th’ college at Ann Arbor. Damn fools, all of ’em ! 
Got a good eye for women, though!” He laughed and 
turned an obscene leer on his passenger. “ Oh, she’s got 
along; got to hand it to her — She’s stuck on herself 
an’ won’t mix with common folks. Good reason, too. She 
don’t want anybody to know what kind she is. Ha! 
Feller up here named Sim Burns — he’s runnin’ for super- 
visor in ’lection today — got stuck on her an’ she wouldn’t 
have him; so he tries to strong-arm her an’ she run him 
off th’ place with a wolf she’s got. That kinda discouraged 
th’ rest of th’ boys, but we all know how she — ” 

He went on with his dirty gossip. They swung to the 
right, into a wide valley and came upon the first indication 
of life and progress in a half-dozen miles. Wire fences 
paralleled the road, winter wheat made a vivid splash in 
the drabness, windmills rose from the flat lands, the 
country was dotted with buildings and in the foreground 
rose a huge red barn, on its hipped roof, in great white 
letters, the legend: 

“Headquarters; Harris Development Company.” 

“Here are farms,” said Taylor, thinking of what the 
boy had said about the land. Lucius nodded and smiled 
knowingly. “ Is this the same Harris? ” 

“Yup, an’ this’s his graft.” 

“Graft?” 

“Sure. He got this land for nothin’ an’ is sellin’ it for 
somethin’.” 


TIMBER 


31 


They passed a tar-paper house, with sagging window 
frames and gaping doors; behind it stretched small fields 
which had been cleared of stumps, but which were now 
grown up to the sparse June grass. Fences were broken 
and some of the posts had been burned as they stood. A 
man was plowing half a mile away ; in another direction a 
pile of freshly pulled stumps smouldered. 

“Jim’s a money maker, ” Lucius volunteered. “You 
see, when Chief Pontiac got their damn sites they had to 
take a lot of this here plains from th’ lumber company, 
so Jim takes it from th’ comp’ny an’ sells it out to suckers. ” 

“I see.” 

“Yup. He’s a sellin’ fool, too! They come in an’ starve 
out an’ quit, an’ it ain’t long before he’s sold th’ place 
again.” 

“But over there” — pointing to the wheat, beside which 
grew young fruit trees and behind which spotted cattle- 
grazed — “that looks good.” 

Again Lucius laughed in his superior manner and 
winked, as though he conferred a great favor by his 
familiarity. 

“Sure, that’s headquarters. That’s what th’ suckers 
see what can grow on light land. What they don’t see is 
th’ train loads of high-priced fertilizer Jim brings up, an’ 
what they don’t know is that he has a devil of a time to 
make a showin’ in two or three fields even at that. If they 
ever get roads and schools in here, his sucker business ’ll 
be better. An’ you watch Jim! He’ll get ’em!” He giggled. 

The car rattled on. They passed a house close to the 
road where a man worked at a broken windmill. 

“Sometimes, a fella fells sorry for th’ suckers at that,” 
admitted Lucius. He waved his hand and the man 


32 


TIMBER 


responded listlessly. “Take Thad Parker, there; he's 
had hard luck. He come from the city to get rich on a 
farm. Jim soaked him right, he did, but Thad thought he 
knowed it all. Now he's most starved out an' his wife’s 
sick. Still, you can't blame Jim. Money's all that 
counts." 

Yes, thought Taylor, money is all that counts. He 
stirred uncomfortably on the uncomfortable seat, however. 

They left the settlement and wound on through the 
scrub oak and pine. 

“What in hell!" 

The motor stopped with a jolt and a sputter. Lucius 
crawled out and lifted the battered hood and scratched 
his head and sighed. 

“Well, we got to do it over again, " he said. 

Taylor got out too, annoyed by the delay. Lucius 
brought out tools; then quite cautiously, with a twinkle in 
his eye, he produced a bottle filled with a brown liquid. 

“Have a little shot in th' arm?" 

Taylor took the bottle and smelled it suspiciously. 

“What is it?" 

“Little of my private stock. Good stuff. Go to it." 

John declined, but Lucius drank deeply and smacked 
his lips. There was little John could do to help. His driver 
alleged that he knew the difficulty and could remedy it 
at once and began to dismantle the motor while John 
strolled about, climbed a near ridge and stood looking 
across that stretch of desolation. It was very quiet and 
lonely. A red-tailed hawk hunted in high, wide circles, 
coming from afar and going out of sight with no evidence 
that his vigilance had been rewarded. There were no 
birds, no small animals; wind made the only movement. 


TIMBER 


33 


In his leather coat, high-laced officer's boots, smoking a 
cigarette in an amber holder, John Taylor looked much 
out of place as he stood on that ridge. He felt out of 
place, too. The dirty little town, the dreary people, the 
coarseness beneath Harris' geniality, the unavoidable 
gabble of the amiable Lucius, the mystery gathering 
about his errand, all combined to depress and make him 
apprehensive — 

“All grubbers!" he muttered. “Grubbers — with no 
chance — except Harris; and he has to live with them! " 

He threw away his cigarette with a grimace and walked 
back to the car. 

Lucius was not drunk; not yet. He claimed to have 
located the trouble and Taylor watched him work so 
closely that he did not see the old man coming out of a 
side road until he was at his elbow. 

“Hello there, Charley Stump!" cried Lucius. 

John looked up. A ragged ancient, with gray hair and 
watery eyes stood by him. He was resting on a bicycle, 
or at least a part of a bicycle. The handle bars were bent 
and twisted; the frame was rust flaked. In place of a 
saddle a wadded gunny sack was bound to the seat post. 
There were no tires on the splintered rims, but quarter- 
inch rope had been wound around and around them. 

“Hello, Lucius," quavered the old man. “Broke down, 
eh? That's where a safety comes in handy," stroking the 
handle bars. “So long as you go a safety goes." 

“That bike won’t go a hell of a ways." 

“True, true, Lucius; when I get my tires though, you 
watch me scorch!" 

“You’ve been talkin' about tires ever since the winter 
of the blue snow." 


84 


TIMBER 


“True, true, but wait till I sell some of my land or until 
I sue some of these here trespassers. Then 111 have tires 
for her. ” 

Lucius said no more, being occupied with a refractory 
cotter pin. 

John looked again at the crazy figure, his torn mackinaw, 
patched overalls and rubbers that were bound to his sock- 
less feet by twine. About the face was a look that was 
nothing less than guilt. It was as though Taylor’s casual 
inspection had charged the old man with some misdeed. 

“You lookin’ for land, mister?” 

“No, no land.” 

“I got some good land, if you are. Fine land; I’ll sell 
reasonable, too.” 

“Paul Bunion himself couldn’t stir up a dust on your 
land, Charley,” said Lucius. 

“Is that so? That’s all you know. You’ll get too flip 
sometime an’ somebody’ll give it to you in th’ neck.” 
With that retort Charley started on, pushing his safety, 
moving slowly. 

“Batty in the knob,” said the boy. “Pushes that bike 
all over the plains, an’ has for years. He’s an old bully- 
boy an’ went cookoo when th’ pine give out. That’s what 
a young feller has to associate with here; that’s one reason 
I’m goin’ to Detroit. Le’s have a drink. ” 

John tried to protest, but Lucius showed temper and 
the attempt to dissuade him was not pressed. He drank 
and went on with his work. 

Afternoon and the bottle were both nearly gone when 
the last bolt went into place and the motor responded to a 
turn of the crank. Taylor took the wheel in spite of the 
boy’s remonstrance and they went on. 


TIMBER 


35 


“All righ’ fer you/’ whined Lucius. “I know who you 
are; I’m glad White put one over — Lemme drive an' I 
won’t be glad — ’s tis, I am!” 

So this backwoods moron, even, knew something about 
his affairs that John Taylor did not know and for a 
moment his apprehension mingled with the chagrin of one 
left outside an open secret. 

The car functioned as well as one of its age and con- 
dition of servitude could possibly do. They climbed the 
ridge and slid down the far side. Lucius drank again and 
leaned heavily against the other and insisted that their 
destination was not far. 

A train paralleled their course and soon they came in 
sight of buildings; a scattering of tar-paper houses, with 
a small water-power mill on a damned creek. A saw 
whined within and two Indians were loading pulp wood 
into a gondola on the siding. There were piles of thin 
lumber and banks of small logs. 

“That’s her mill,” said the boy. 

“Whose?” 

“Helen Forsakersh — Her mill.” 

“Which way now? The road forks.” 

“Keep lef ’ — lef’ — . ” 

They turned, crossed the head of the mill pond and 
plunged into the gloom of thick timber. At first Taylor 
paid little attention, for there was the usual mixture of 
oak, poplar and small pines. The road was straight and 
even and had been plowed. The oak disappeared, the 
trees became larger; he craned his neck to look up and 
grunted in surprise. He was in a dense pine forest, silent 
and fresh and bearing no evidence of fire. He slowed the 
car and looked out curiously. They were small trees, 


36 


TIMBER 


averaging somewhere near a foot in diameter, he thought, 
but they were thick and uniform. The trunks were not 
smooth; many dead branches protruded there, as nature 
pursued her slow method of pruning. There was little 
brush on the ground. 

“Is this Foraker’s Folly?” he asked. 

Lucius roused with a start. “Yup — Damn fool. 
— She’s a lulu though!” 

They crossed what appeared to be another road, also 
straight and plowed, but in it were no worn ruts. Soon 
they crossed another and another, placed at regular 
intervals. And then they ran out of the gloom, into sight 
of the Blueberry River which swooped at them, impris- 
oned between high banks, and a house, first story of logs 
and the second thatched with shingles, wide-windowed, 
generous of chimney, which stood on a knoll against the 
deep green of white pine. There were other buildings 
about, several of them, but the road led straight to the 
door of the big house. 

“Here; we’re in wrong,” growled Taylor and set the 
brake, stopping at the corner of the building, not far from 
a dog kennel, from the depths of which two orange lights 
glowed at him. He shook the boy roughly and roused 
him. 

“Where are we?” 

The other yawned. 

“ I’ll be son-gun — Brought you right to her housh!” 

“Get out then, and let me out — I’ll have to find the 
way for myself.” 

Lucius grumbled as John took him by the shoulder and 
shoved him to the ground. 

“Leggo me!” 


TIMBER 


37 


“If I do you can’t stand up. You’re drunk and a fool.” 

“Who saysh I’m drun’? Drun’, am I?” 

With a lunging jerk of his body he tore free and stag- 
gered backward, swearing, and then from the kennel 
where two glowing spots had been, came a gray streak, a 
ragged growl, a flash of bared teeth, white as frost. 

Taylor leaped forward to grasp the boy, but again he 
twisted out of his reach. The dog left the ground in a 
long leap. John saw the red of its open mouth, caught the 
wicked glitter of the eye, and his foot shot out, hard and 
true, toe landing on the jaw, turning the creature up and 
over, flinging it hard upon the ground on its back. 

“Get out of the way!” he said, and this time fastened 
his fingers in Lucius’ sweater, jerking him toward the car, 
and stepped back himself as the dog came through the 
air, straight at his own throat, and reached the end of the 
chain, and went back and down with a choking roar of 
dismay. 

Taylor turned to confront Lucius who had settled down 
on the running board, hot words on his lips and anger in 
his face. But he did not let the oath slip out, for a girl 
stood before him, a bare-headed girl in a red mackinaw, 
red in her cheeks, a flash in her eyes. 

“That was uncalled for,” she said evenly. 

There was no anger in her voice; that was steady and 
cool and of splendid quality, but there was anger in her 
eyes. Another thing was there : an impersonal superiority. 
She gave Taylor the impression of an individual of conse- 
quence being annoyed by something trivial. 

“I’m sorry I had to kick your dog,” John said, “but 
the Providence that looks after fools and drunkards 
seemed to have turned its back. He got in your dog’s way.” 


38 


TIMBER 


She followed his gesture to the drooping Lucius and saw 
the silly leer in his eye. 

“I didn’t understand. I only saw you step in to kick 
her. I’m sorry I was so abrupt.” 

But she was not sorry, Taylor felt. She did not care 
whether she had done him an injustice or not; she walked 
past him, speaking gently to the dog, calling her Pauguk. 
The animal, which had been running back and forth, 
muttering against her helplessness to be at the man who 
had struck her, sank belly to the earth when the girl 
approached, licking her chops swiftly, now and then dart- 
ing a venomous glance at Taylor. The girl’s hand was 
extended, the red tongue caressed it furtively and Pauguk 
slunk closer to her. John saw that this was no ordinary 
dog. Bigger, stronger, with something that dogs do not 
have, some curious thing which — 

“Wolf!” he muttered. 

“I’m sorry I come to your house and start a disturb- 
ance at once, ” he said icily, as the girl turned back. He 
scrutinized her closely and his gaze lingered on the thick 
hank of brown hair at her neck. Her eyes were brown, too, 
and wide and intelligent. “I got in here by mistake 
because my driver seems to have done pretty well at 
breaking the prohibition law.” 

She looked at Lucius again, but made no response; his 
explanation had not interested her. 

“I was headed for White’s camp,” he went on, resent- 
ing this indifference. “He gave me the wrong turn.” 

When he spoke of his destination, her eyes came to his 
face and he fancied that a gleam of curiosity showed in 
them. 

t “You can’t get there tonight, ” she said, holding out her 


TIMBER 


39 


hand to feel the first drops of rain. “The camp is 
abandoned, anyhow. ” 

“I suppose I’d better go back to Pancake, then.” 

She eyed the car dubiously. 

“Between the machine and its driver, I don’t think 
that’s wise.” 

“Where can I go? I never saw such a God-for- 
saken — ” 

“We can take care of you.” Then turned and lifted 
her voice: “Joe? Black Joe?” 

A squat and swarthy man appeared from behind the 
house. He looked at Taylor, at Lucius, and then at the 
girl with a surly grunt of query. 

“Get him out of sight before the children see him,” 
she said. “There’s an empty bunk in the shanty?” 

“One.” 

Black Joe spit on his hands. 

“Let me help you,” said Taylor. 

The man, stooped over Lucius, looked at him closely 
and slowly, from head to foot; he said nothing, but in 
the glance was contempt and hostility. He grasped the 
boy by one arm and ankle, slung him over his shoulder 
and walked away. 

“You’ll have to come in here,” the girl said, moving 
toward the steps. “The men’s shanty is crowded, and 
anyhow you’ll — probably be better off here.” 

She added that last after a look which covered him 
qs thoroughly as had the contemptuous stare of Black 
Joe, and her manner was as though she took upon herself 
dutifully the protection of an unwelcome child. It was a 
challenge to his assurance with women and stung his pride. 

“Thanks, but you needn’t bother,” he said sharply. 


40 


TIMBER 


“No bother. It is the only place,” as she ascended the 
steps and opened the door, turning to wait for him. 

He was impelled to refuse curtly this strange hospitality 
and sought for some retort that would sting her as she 
had stung him. None came, but, as he stood looking up 
at the girl while her eyes followed Black Joe and his inert 
burden into the near-by building, he smiled rather grimly. 
He knew women. She chose to ignore him; he would let 
her go to the end of her rope and bring her up as shortly 
as the wolf dog had brought up against her chain. He 
followed her into the house. 

A lean, tall woman was sweeping the carpeted floor, 
a cloth tied over her head. 

“Aunty May,” said the girl, “this man is going to 
stay with us tonight. Will you show him the room? ” 

The woman also eyed Taylor sourly. The girl had 
drawn off her jacket and was approaching an old-fashioned 
walnut desk beneath a window. 

“My name, ” he said coolly, “is Taylor. I think I know 
who you are.” 

She turned and he saw interest at last in her face. He 
felt no regret that to impress her he had been forced to 
bludgeon through her indifference with his father’s 
identity. 

“You’re here, then, to look after your father’s logs?” 

“Yes,” and the satisfaction he had derived by shaking 
her aloofness was engulfed in apprehension again. 

“Well,” said the older woman testily, “do you want to 
stand here and gas or put that satchel away?” 

After the girl’s manner this grumpiness was burlesque. 
Taylor grinned and followed her across the room to the 
open stairway./ 


CHAPTER IV 


Two hours later Taylor stood alone before the hearth 
and looked about at that strange room. The walls were 
lined with shelves, and most of the shelves were heavy 
with books and pamphlets. The books were not the sort he 
had ever seen. There was little fiction, and that tucked 
in high places; some history, some other usual books, 
but these were all lost in row after row of technical volumes 
on chemistry, soils, and whole shelves of texts on silvicul- 
ture. There were many works in French and German, 
all on forests and their products. The pamphlets came 
from every part of the country, from the Forest Service 
at Washington, from the offices of State Foresters, Tax 
Commissions and Congressional Committees. There 
was a set of books from the Bureau of Corporations, a 
set from Pennsylvania, one from Canada. A file of the 
Forestry Quarterly was placed next a row of copies of the 
Journal of Forestry, and below that was a set of technical 
forest papers from British India. A set of shelves was 
stacked with lumber trade journals, the backs of many 
checked with blue marks evidently indicating important 
references. 

Then there were circular sections of tree trunks which 
had been polished until the rings stood out sharply. 
Except for size they all looked alike to him and he did 
not pause for long before them. 

The wall in which the fireplace was set was without 
shelves and on it were hung curious charts. There was 
41 


4:2 


TIMBER 


one map of Blueberry County with an area set off in a 
broken blue line. That, he thought, must be the forest, 
Foraker’s Folly. It comprised nearly half of one town- 
ship. There were charts which he could not decipher; 
they looked like statistical reports in graphic form, but 
the legends were in symbols and they yielded him no 
information. 

The flat-topped desk was in poor order, but the accumu- 
lated papers bore no dust, evidence that they were much 
handled. There was an old swivel chair at the desk with 
the leather worn from its cushions. The remainder of the 
furniture was largely old-fashioned and of long service. 
He looked about the walls again scratching his chin in 
perplexity, and his eyes struck one other object which 
he had missed, a photograph in an oval frame. It was 
the face of a young man, and taken years ago. A flowing 
beard covered the expanse of shirt front, a mop of dark 
hair was brushed back from the brow. That brow was 
wide and the eyes, though the reproduction was dulled 
by age, possessed the light of great intelligence. It was a 
good face, a sensitive face, the face of a kindly dreamer, 
and in it was something of the dignity which had been 
in the face of Helen Foraker as she talked with him 
outside the door. 

He dropped into an armchair and stretched his feet 
before the fire. 

Rain slashed across the windows steadily and the 
rising wind moaned in the trees, dropping now to a dis- 
consolate murmur, growing again to a sob, and this cry 
of weather in pine tops struck a responsive chord of 
uneasiness in Taylor. Events of the last two days had 
created a growing doubt in him; the uncongeniality of 


TIMBER 


43 


his surroundings was depressing, and as he sat there the 
thought of Marcia recurred to him and for the first time 
his sense of obligation to her became conscious responsi- 
bility. She wanted the things that money could give; she 
trusted him to get them for her, and he was suddenly 
aware of the responsibility that devolves upon a man 
when he promises happiness to a woman. 

He had been confident enough that this errand was but 
a brief preliminary step, that by it he would win his 
father’s confidence, and that the remainder would be 
simple. Now he was not so certain. Difficulties might 
be ahead, and if he failed — He rose and paced the 
bear-skin rug. Money and how to get it! The goal and 
the problem of his kind! A door opened and Helen 
Foraker appeared. He stopped his pacing. 

“We will eat now, Mr. Taylor.” 

He saw a table laid, with Aunty May and children 
standing by it. He saw, too, that when she bade him 
come to her board a portion of the indifference which 
had marked her was absorbed by a show of graciousness. 

He entered the dining room. 

“Mr. Taylor, this is Bobby Kildare and his sister 
Bessy.” 

The little girl, who was no more than three, advanced 
and courtesied gravely. The boy, twice her age, face 
shining from recent soap, grinned self-consciously as he 
put out a warm hand. Aunty May did not look at John, 
but busied herself with Bessy’s bib. At first, there was 
a constrained silence about the table. Aunty May poured 
tea and gestured reproof to Bobby whose appetite was 
stronger than his sense of manners. Helen served and 
commented indifferently on the storm. 


44 


TIMBER 


“I understand you’re interested in conservation, Miss 
Foraker, ” Taylor said. 

Her gaze flashed to him as though she expected to find 
ridicule in his face, held a moment, and, not finding it, 
she smiled faintly. 

“Most people who are doing what is usually called 
conservation work don’t like the word. It suggests holding 
out, a setting apart. Growing new forests is what my 
father called national life insurance. They are not to be 
held out of use forever, but to be used when ripe and 
ready for market.” 

She spoke quickly with assurance, and yet with abstrac- 
tion as one will who is accustomed to repeating a maxim 
for the unschooled. 

“Your father was rather a pioneer in reforestation, 
I take it. ” 

She nodded. “A pioneer in this country, at least. 
This is the first fairly big hand-grown forest we have.” 

“It surprised me. I had no idea it was so far along.” 

“Most people who stop in Pancake have little idea 
of what is here.” 

“I understand that. I heard about your pine on the 
way out.” 

“With embellishments, I presume?” 

“Plenty,” he laughed. 

Silence. Helen spoke to the other woman and to the 
children, but displayed no inclination to talk further with 
Taylor, which nettled him. He cast about for another 
conversational entry and finding none urged: 

“I’m interested. Where did your father get his idea? 
How long ago did he make his beginning? ” 

“Aunty May, give Bessy some more potato, will you?” 


TIMBER 


45 


“The idea came to him like all big ideas come to big 
men, I suppose,” turning to John, “out of an appreciation 
of coming necessity. He had made some money in pine. 
He came on this tract a year or so after the last of the 
original pine was cut. It was naturally protected from 
the fires that always followed logging, by the river, 
swamps, hardwood and a chain of lakes, and no fire of 
consequence had been in here. He saw the seedlings 
coming up so thickly, knew that the land had produced 
splendid pine once, and believed it would again. He 
bought the piece, kept fires out, went abroad to see how 
Central Europe had grown its own forests, and put in 
the rest of his life making this land produce its second crop. 

“That was in the middle seventies when he started. 
The growth is nearly fifty years old now. Foraker’s Folly 
had become an old story and a stale joke to the locality, 
and very few people outside are interested enough to find 
out about it.” 

A burst of wind set the forest moaning. 

“Your father had a great deal of courage,” Taylor 
began and the girl looked up with something like apprecia- 
tion. That died, however, when he added: “But that’s 
a long time to wait for a return on your investment.” 

“Yes,” she said, and in the response was marked cool- 
ness. 

The outer door opened and Helen looked over her 
shoulder. 

“What is it, Joe?” 

The short man crossed the room and stood in the door- 
way, wet cap in his hands. 

“Tell her,” he said, “that Milt couldn’t get any bacon 
from Raymer.”^ 


46 


TIMBER 


The girl turned to Aunty May and said gravely: 

“Milt couldn’t get any bacon at the mill, Aunty. ” 

The gaunt woman grunted and her eyes flashed. 

“Tell him,” she said, “that the baby trap needs a new 
stake an’ I want it in by morning. I can’t chase younguns 
all day long.” 

“Joe, the baby trap needs a new stake. Will you get 
it in tomorrow?” Helen asked. 

“First thing,” promised Joe. 

He waited a moment, then turned and went out. 

Taylor looked at Helen and stole a swift glance at 
Aunty May. Nothing in their faces gave the key to this 
strange procedure. He stirred in his chair and smiled, 
and then attempted to start talk. He could not break 
the girl’s reserve, however; he extended himself in the 
effort; she was coolly courteous, that was all. He could 
not make her respond and with his repeated failures his 
impulse to rouse her interest grew strong. He had the 
evening before him, he told himself; he would take her 
measure before he slept! 

But there was no opportunity for that. When they 
left the table, Taylor lighted a cigarette and stood before 
the fire while the girl went to the telephone and for twenty 
minutes her talk was a jumble of queries, orders, comments 
which meant little to him: an inventory of lath was 
mentioned, the billing of cars of pulp wood, reference to 
a new band saw, memoranda hastily made, talk of a 
sick horse and regret that the man, Milt, must spend the 
night with the animal. 

She hung up the receiver finally. She did not even look 
at Taylor but sat at the desk and lighted a student lamp 
which stood there. 


TIMBER 


47 

H 

“I hope you won’t think we’re inhospitable,” she said, 
as though it did not matter greatly what he thought, 
“but this is a busy time of year.” 

He felt himself flushing. This was dismissal with no 
opening for argument — and after he had planned 
to make this girl come to time. He found himself walking 
toward the stairway, muttering about letters he wanted 
to write, feeling driven out and inferior and furious. 
He watched the girl as he ascended. She was sorting 
papers rapidly and did not even glance at him, John 
Taylor, who knew all about women and who had dedicated 
this evening to making her regret that she had patronized 
him and been indifferent. 


CHAPTER V 


An hour passed. John sat at the table in his room, 
paper before him, pen idle in his hand. The room was 
heated by a grating in the floor which gave into the room 
below where the girl sat, and from time to time the creak 
of her chair or the rustle of papers came up to him. Beyond 
those sounds and the talk of the pines outside, there was 
no break in his solitude. Then a car came, stopping in 
front of the house, and a rap sounded on the door. 

Helen Foraker rose to open it. A tall man with a thin 
red nose, a stoop, a celluloid collar and small greedy eyes 
stood on the step, a package under his arm. 

“What do you want, Sim Burns? ” she asked, but did 
not move to bid him enter. 

“Evenin', " and his eyes shifted to the interior, swinging 
back to her face when he saw that the room was empty. 
“ I want to talk to you. ” 

She did not reply at once, but her eyes which were in 
shadow held on his; she saw the bronze of his face deepen, 
but he did not go on with his errand; not even when she 
said impatiently: “Yes?" 

“ It's nothin' I can say in a minute. I'd rather come in. " 

She stepped back and let him enter, closing the door 
behind her and watching the man as he unbuttoned his 
overcoat and shook the water from it. 

“You don’t need to stand by the door, Miss Foraker. I 
ain't goin' to hurt you. " 

“I'm sure of that. Sit down." 

48 


TIMBER 


49 


“Th’ last time I was here, you didn’t ask me to sit 
down.” 

“You remember very well.” 

“Yeah. If you thought I was goin’ to forget, you was 
fooled. Remember? I’ll say I do!” He laughed shortly 
and licked his lips; his glittering eyes were steady on 
her face and most unpleasant. “That’s why I’m here 
tonight, because I remember and want you to remember. 
— I told you that day I wouldn’t forget, that you’d see 
th’ time when you’d wish you’d gone a little slower. ” 

A flush whipped across the girl’s face but she did not 
speak; only settled her lips in a tighter line and watched 
him expectantly. 

“I give you all the show there was,” he went on 
bitterly; “I come here like an honest man would; I offered 
you a good home an’ a respected name, an’ when you 
wouldn’t have any of me you wasn’t satisfied to turn me 
down, but had to set your damned dog on me an’ spread 
th’ story to th’ country.” 

He swallowed vehemently. 

“You may recall,” she said evenly, “that it was neces- 
sary to turn Pauguk on you to avoid — ugly things.” 

“Yeah. That’s what you think. I wouldn’t touched 
you, wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head. Didn’t I come 
here to ask you to marry me?” 

“I gathered that. You were drunk.” 

He fidgeted a moment before her scorn, then burst out: 
“That ain’t what I come for, to go over all that again. 
I just wanted to remind you that I said then you’d live 
to regret it. Well, you have.” 

He hitched the package under his arm closer against 
his side and tapped it. 


50 


TIMBER 


“That’s th’ poll books of Lincoln township. I’m takin’ 
’em to Pancake tonight so they can canvass th’ vote in 
today’s election. Know what they’ll find? They’ll find 
that Sim Burns is supervisor. ” 

“I expected so. You were unopposed. ” 

“Unopposed! An’ I’d ’ve won anyhow; I’d ’ve won 
if it was th’ last thing I ever done, because ever since 
that time when th’ story about you an’ your dog an’ me 
got around I’ve lived just to pay you back.” His voice 
mounted as he moved closer to her, head on one side, arm 
extended in an accusing point. “By bein’ supervisor, 
I’m tax officer of this town; by bein’ tax officer I hold 
you an’ your forest in my power! Like that! Now, do 
you understand?” He opened his long bony fingers to 
their limit and closed them slowly as though they strangled 
a hated life. 

One of Helen Foraker’s hands, which had hung limp 
at her side, moved ever so slightly, some of the color 
went from her face and in place of her scorn appeared a 
flicker of misgiving. 

Burns remained tense a moment, then relaxed suddenly 
and laughed again. 

“I guess you get me, ” nodding slowly. “You seen fit to 
run me off your place. Now I’ll see fit to tax you out of 
th’ county! 

“There’s only one reason your old man an’ you got by 
this far. Your father was laughin’ stock for th’ old county 
officers. They’d told him so often that he was a fool and 
couldn’t grow pine that they got to believing it. They 
rode him so hard that they couldn’t believe any other 
way an’ save their faces. So naturally they couldn’t run 
up his taxes, ’cause if they did, they’d admit that they 


TIMBER 


51 


was wrong, an’ men don’t like to do that — specially 
after they’ve made so much noise about bein’ right. 

“None of ’em was any more down on you than Tom 
Burns, my own uncle. None of ’em ridiculed any harder 
than he did. He’d been supervisor from Lincoln township 
since I can remember. Now he’s dead, an’ I’m in his 
place an’ I aint afraid to step out an’ tell the world an’ 
Blueberry County that these old men have been wrong; 
that you can grow timber, that you have grown timber, 
an’ that now, by God, you’re goin’ to pay for the privilege 
of growin’ it in this county!” 

His voice had risen to a thin cry and his eyes blazed 
churlish triumph. 

“Yes, it is likely you can do that, if you want to,” she 
said, measuring each word, thinking desperately. “It 
has been done before. The last stick of hardwood in the 
county was taken off last winter because you men taxed 
the owner to the point of financial failure. All over the 
country logging camps are slaughtering timber to keep 
ahead of taxation. You may start that with me if you 
see fit; you may not get very far, but — ” 

“Oh, I know Humphrey Bryant’s behind you! I know 
he’s tryin’ to turn the timber taxation upside down at 
Lansing. Let me tell you, girl, I’ll snap my fingers in 
Hump’ Bryant’s face. He’s got to get elected to th’ 
Senate again before he can help you an’ he ain’t so much a 
fox as he thinks he is. I’ll have your assessment on th’ rolls 
in a week; I’ll have you whipped before th’ first of th’ 
year because you drove me off, with your wolf bitch ! ” 
He forced the last words through set teeth. The girl, 
backed against the door, breathed rapidly as he advanced. 
“Unless you’ll listen to reason,” voice lowering to a 


52 


TIMBER 


whine. “Unless you’ll make a new start with me. Unless 
you—” 

“Sim Burns, you — ” 

“Forget it!” His hand whipped out to grasp her 
wrist as anger leaped into her eyes. She struggled against 
his clutch. 

“Let go!” 

“Let go, hell! Choose now! It’s one or the other: me 
an’ your forest — or neither!” 

He had not heard the step on the stair. He was so 
centered on his strategy that he did not detect her relief 
and neglect to struggle. 

“I think this will do.” 

It was John Taylor’s voice close behind Burns and the 
man looked over his shoulder sharply, hand still clutching 
Helen’s wrist. For a second his amazed eyes clung to 
Taylor’s confident smile and he made no move. 

“Miss Foraker has asked you to let go her arm — 
You will do it now.” 

There was a snap to the last and John dropped a firm 
hand on Burns’ shoulder. 

Sim whirled to face him. 

“What’s this to you,” he panted, rage returning to 
cover his start. 

“Not much, except that you are going to go away 
now — unless Miss Foraker wants to say more to you. ” 

He turned to the girl, who moved away from the door 
slowly, as though not just certain of the strength of her 
limbs. She did not look at the men, but shook her head 
in a disgusted reply to Taylor’s words. 

Burns straightened and put on his hat, buttoning his 
overcoat haughtily. 


TIMBER 


53 


“ Don’t think you’re driving me out, ” he sneered. “I’ve 
said what I had to say ’nd am ready to go.” 

“Which is fortunate for you, but not so fortunate for 
me. I’d welcome a chance to throw you out!” 

John’s voice trembled on that, as a burst of dislike ran 
through him. He opened the door and with a quick 
gesture indicated the way out. 

“Don’t be in such a rush, young feller. I ain’t quite — ” 

He had paused to fasten the last button of his coat, 
but John grasped his arm and with a yank impelled him 
to the threshold. Sim struggled and stopped and half 
turned to protest, but the door swung swiftly shut and 
he stepped into the rain to avoid being struck by it. 

Taylor stood by the door until the car moved away. 
Helen had gone to her desk, seating herself weakly, 
supporting her head on one hand. He could see her 
profile, softened by the yellow glow of the lamp. She was 
very lovely, this beauty in distress, and he let the pride 
of being her defender come to full life. His chagrin at 
her repulses was even stronger now, for he felt that he 
held the upper hand. He had no genuine concern for 
her, no sympathy for her fright and depression. No longer 
would she patronize him! She would eat out of his hand, 
now! He moved to the desk and stood looking down at her. 
Helen lifted her face and met the amusement in his eyes. 

“I thank you,” she said. “It is lucky for me you were 
here. ” 

He laughed depreciatingly and settled his weight to the 
corner of her desk, swinging the one leg, big hands clasped 
on his thigh. 

“And it is lucky for me,” he said, “that I was here. 
Helping you gave me a real thrill.” 


54 


TIMBER 


His voice was low and gentle; too low; too gentle; he 
leaned forward toward her and smiled and one of his hands 
dropped to the blotter, very close to hers, resting there 
lightly, as though it would move forward and cover 
that other hand. His smile, his tone, his manner indicated 
that he felt himself completely the master, and was very 
certain that his advance would not be repulsed this time. 

The fright went from Helen Foraker’s eyes. They 
studied his face a moment, almost abstractedly, looking 
down at his hand and then back to meet his gaze. 

“ Please don’t,” she said abruptly. ‘‘There is no one 
here to throw you out, Mr. Taylor — Besides, I didn’t 
think you were quite that sort. ” 

He straightened, flushing, feeling cut and whipped, 
like an impudent little boy who has met dignified rebuke. 
He had no retort, had no resources with which to bolster 
his poise. He tried to smile but the effort died. He cleared 
his throat to speak — he knew not what, then felt 
welcome relief as the telephone bell whirred and the girl 
rose to answer it. 


CHAPTER VI 


The side of the telephone conversation which Taylor 
overheard through his confusion indicated surprise and 
regret. Finished, the girl turned and looked for a moment 
squarely at him and he flinched inwardly, for he expected 
that elaborate denunciation would follow, but when she 
spoke, she said: 

“ I am going to ask you to go with me on an errand of 
mercy. A woman is very sick a few miles away. The 
telephone line between them and town is down, and they 
have sent for me to come. I can help there perhaps, but 
we may need some one to send into Pancake after the 
doctor. There is no one here who can drive a car except 
you. Will you go with me?” 

“Why, of course,” he stammered, at once relieved and 
mortified to think that she should ask a favor of him in 
that moment. 

“There isn’t much time.” 

He hurried to his room for coat and hat and then 
followed Helen out of the house to a shed where her car 
was sheltered. It was a one-seated Ford with a box body 
behind in which shovels and other tools clanked and 
thumped as they drove through the rain. Little was said, 
the girl was occupied with the difficult driving, for rain 
streaked the windshield, and Taylor was busy with an 
attempt to re-establish his own assurance. He had over- 
stepped himself, had been brought up sharply, but instead 
55 


56 


TIMBER 


of finding the expected resentment in this girl she had 
called on him for help. Strange, surely! 

They left the forest behind, passed the mill with its 
group of shacks and skipped on along the plains road. 
Water which had gathered in the ruts was shot across 
the glare of the lights in a brief arc, the car lurched and 
wriggled in the twisted road and black brush lacquered 
by the rain reeled past. With scarcely an exchange of 
words they covered the distance to the Harris settlement, 
turned from the main road and stopped before a house. 

A door opened and a man stood silhouetted in the light. 

“She asked for you,” he said cautiously as Helen, 
followed by Taylor, approached the steps. “She’s just 
dropped to sleep.” 

“Could you get the doctor?” 

“Sim Burns was going by,” the man replied, “and I 
sent word by him.” 

Helen entered, drawing off her gloves. 

“If he doesn’t come in an hour, Mr. Taylor had better 
drive in for him. Mr. Parker, this is Mr. Taylor.” 

Parker closed the door and shook hands silently with 
John who recognized him as the man who had waved 
at Lucius that afternoon. His unshaven face was very 
white and his black eyes seemed abnormally large against 
its pallor. 

“Doctor was here this morning,” he said huskily. “He 
said — ” He swallowed and shook his head. “He said 
a day or two would tell.” 

“ Is she — Does she suffer? ” Helen asked. 

Tears came into the man’s eyes and he looked at her 
helplessly. 

“It’s awful! I thought yesterday she was better, but 


TIMBER 


57 


in the night she lost her head. She’s — just given up.” 

Helen looked about the small room. It was well ordered 
and with a minimum of material it had been given an air 
of comfort, of stability. 

“What can I do?” she asked. 

“Nothin’ unless she — ” 

From behind a closed door came a stirring and a weak, 
muffled voice: 

“Thad?” 

He moved quickly. “Yes, Jenny,” opening the door. 

“Who’s there?” 

“Miss Foraker.” 

“Oh — I’m so glad.” 

Helen stepped to the door. Parker took the oil lamp 
from its bracket and went into the bedroom where a very 
slight, very pale girl lay under the patch-work quilt. 
She was very young, and the pain, the pallor, the weak- 
ness reflected in her face could not cover completely her 
girlhood. When her blue eyes rested on Helen’s face 
she tried to smile, but the result was feeble. One of the 
thin white hands on the cover stirred. 

“I’m so glad,” she whispered, “so glad you’ve come. 
I’ve thought about you so much — I wanted to send 
for you; I think you, maybe, can understand about 
us better than any one else. ” 

Helen sat down beside the bed. Parker placed the 
lamp on the table and stood looking down at the two 
women, lips loose and hands limp at his sides. In the other 
room Taylor sat quietly near the roaring cook stove, 
in the shaft of light which came from the bed chamber. 

“I didn’t know you were so sick or I’d have been here 
before, ” Helen said very gently. The other tried to smile 


58 


TIMBER 


again and moved the hand. Helen took it between hers 
and the sick girl closed her eyes peacefully. “I heard 
about — about the beginning, of course; I didn’t 
know you’d had such a hard time. Perhaps the worst 
is behind, though; that is something to be thankful for.” 

Her voice was very gentle, as gentle a voice as Taylor 
had ever heard. He could see her stroking the hand she 
held and her manner was in such contrast to her former 
brusqueness and indifference to others that he leaned 
forward to watch. 

The head on the pillow moved weakly in denial of the 
suggestion. 

“It’s all over,” the thin voice said. “I know. The 
doctor knows, but he won’t say it. Thad knows, but he 
won’t give up hoping.” Her husband’s hand twitched, 
but he made no remonstrance. “He has more strength 
to hope than I had — I haven’t any at all — now. ” 

“Oh, that can’t be — ” 

“It’s sweet of you to try to be cheery,” the thin voice 
interrupted, “But please don’t. I haven’t much strength 
to talk and I want to talk, because it will make me feel 
easier in my heart.” 

Color had come into her cheeks and a tell-tale brightness 
in her eyes. Her legs stirred restlessly. 

“Ever since we came here two years ago I’ve wanted 
to know you. Ever since I found out what you are doing 
and what Jim Harris is doing — But I’ve been a little 
afraid — You’re so busy — you have such a big 
job — ” She coughed and waited for breath. “You’re 
the first woman I heard about. They told me you were 
crazy, that your father was crazy, and at first I believed 
it because everybody I knew said so — Then I found 


TIMBER 


59 


out — You’re doing something with this land that 
no one else has the courage or the patience to do — 
This land which means so much and so little. ” 

She stirred again and was silent a moment, staring 
at the ceiling. 

“ I suppose every one thinks their troubles are worse than 
anybody else’s, so there’s never been anybody to listen 
to ours. The people who might be friendly are in trouble 
themselves; the others don’t care — much. I’ve had it 
bottled up in me so long and it’s taken so much of 
my strength — the trouble, I mean — that I’ll have to 
talk of it now if — if I’m ever going to talk.” 

She moved her head so she might look into Helen’s face. 

“You’ve been here long enough to know what goes on. 
I just want you to know that we — Thad and I — know 
you’re right — now. Maybe there are some others 
who know that, too, but they won’t take the trouble to 
say it — perhaps. We’ve been only nodding acquaint- 
ances, you and I, yet we’ve had so much in common. ” 

In the pause the girl seemed to be thinking carefully, 
planning what she would say next. 

“I’ll have to go to the beginning — You see, this 
was to have been our home; our cottage, our vine and 
our fig tree. Thad and I worked in the same office in 
Chicago — we hated it, both of us, hated the city, hated 
the grind that didn’t seem to get people anywhere but 
to wealth — a very few. We’d never known the 
country, but we used to spend our Sundays walking and 
we got the idea that when we married we’d like to go back 
to the land — ” 

A sound, like the shadow of a laugh, came from her 
troubled chest. 


TIMBER 


60 

j “Our interest made us good prospects for the sharks, ” 
f the vaguest hint of bitterness creeping into the feeble 
tone. “Several of them came and talked and explained 
and worked our hopes up. Then Harris’ man came. He 
was the most — the most competent of any of them. 
He had pictures of headquarters here, and pictures of 
prosperous farms — taken in another county, we 
found out afterward. They offered to pay our expenses 
up here to look the property over. It all sounded so good 
that we signed the option — ” 

She closed her eyes a moment and breathed quickly, 
gathering strength. Her husband sat down on the bed 
and rested a hand on one of her covered knees. 

“It wasn’t any option — We found that out when 
we got here. It was an iron-clad contract. They had our 
word and some of our money. We didn’t know what we 
were getting in for, because we were only city people — 
who wanted to get onto the land — we gave them 
more money to save what we had already put in. We left 
our jobs and came here to live. 

“At first it didn’t seem so bad. It wasn’t what we had 
expected, but we still had plenty of hope left. The land 
was cheap, we thought, we believed we were pioneers and 
were quite proud to stand the racket for the first few 
months. But we saw other families leaving and some 
staying here and starving and our land didn’t yield, 
and the more we learned about it the less we could hope 
that it ever would grow crops — Little as it cost, it 
was very expensive — 

“We were suckers, you see; suckers for the land sharks! 
They took our money, and we put our hope in behind 
the money — and it wasn’t possible to get either out.” 


TIMBER 61 

/ 

She swallowed with an effort. 

“Then — when we knew a baby was coming, we 
didn’t care so much about this failure. We thought we 
could get enough to eat, anyhow, and with the baby 
we could be happy! We planned to give it one more 
summer’s trial and then in the fall, when I was strong 
enough, we’d go back to the towns where Thad could 
get a job, and we could begin all over again if we had 
to — we were young then, you see — ” 

Helen leaned over and stroked her brow soothingly. 
“And, you’re still young.” 

The head beneath her hand moved in denial. 

“Old,” the woman whispered, “very old — very 
old, Helen. You don’t mind my calling you that, do 
you? I’ve been your friend so long without knowing you. 

“We had planned for the baby so! I had sewed, we had 
decided on the name even. We knew they couldn’t put 
us out without months of delay; we had fire wood and 
a roof, and a cow, and Thad could get food somehow. 
Clothes didn’t matter. We were going to be happy in 
in spite of the failure. 

“And then the baby — ” She swallowed again and 
paused. “That is what made me old, Helen. If he had 
lived, it might have been different — But when he didn’t 
even cry — not once — something broke inside me — 
and when the doctor told me I couldn’t ever have another 
baby — you see, the last hope I had went out — ” 

She closed her eyes and did not open them as she said: 

“ I lost him because I worried so much over our mistake ; 
I’d worried beneath the surface; I grew weak with it and 
\ thought I wasn’t worrying. I lost everything with that 
worry, even the desire to live, finally — I — That’s what 


62 


TIMBER 


this place is: A graveyard for hopes!” Her voice was 
suddenly stronger. “That’s what Jim Harris and all his 
kind are: murderers of hope! Worse than that, he 
killed my baby! Jim Harris,” struggling to sit up. “If 
there ever was a man without heart or scruple, it’s Jim 
Harris!” She sank back weakly and her fingers plucked 
at the quilt while she panted from the effort. 

The color had gone from Helen Foraker’s face then, 
and her brows were gathered in suffering. Her lips were 
set ; she made no effort to speak. But once more she took the 
girl’s hand and the cold fingers clutched hers desperately. 

“We went to him when we saw the trick that had 
been played. He wouldn’t give us back a cent — He 
was hard — He can be hard — He would listen, but he 
had so many answers, so many reasons — Legal reasons — 
He is so good-natured, seems to be so friendly! That is 
why he has this — awful success! 

“Back to the land,” she muttered after a pause. “Ah, 
such land! and if we had known, we could have gone 
north, just a few miles, into the hardwood cutover and 
made a go of it. We’d have had our cottage, our vine, 
our apple tree. We’d have had our baby, Thad and me — 
and we’d have had our hopes — our youth — And there’s 
so much land for the land hungry; so much good land 
that weary city people might have if they only knew 
more — So much — I can’t — I — ” 

She drew a hand across her eyes. When she spoke 
again, her voice was little more than a whisper. 

“And even this land is good for those who have vision, 
for men like your father must have been, for women like 
you, Helen. Timber! Timber as a crop! They all said 
you were a fool, and I believed them, until I saw — You 


TIMBER 


63 


have grown such a beautiful forest on this land which 
won't grow anything else — You've gone ahead and paid 
no attention to their jeers: you had the dream and a 
wealth of hope — They say yet — you can never pay 
out — But I don’t believe them — They are so ignorant. 
I hope it all comes right for Foraker's Folly — I hope 
they see the wisdom in it. 

“Oh, this graveyard! this graveyard of hopes! a 
cottage — and peace — and enough — It wasn’t wealth 
we wanted — only peace — peace — " 

For an interval the others waited, watching the rise 
and fall of her chest. “Peace," she whispered again and 
her lips formed other soundless words and then were still. 

“Asleep," whispered Helen and Thad nodded, brushing 
his eyes. 

Carefully she laid the hand she held back on the covers, 
rose and stepped from the room. Parker remained there, 
taking the chair Helen had left, bending over his wife, 
hands clasped on his knees so tightly that the knuckle 
bones seemed to threaten the skin. 

In the kitchen Taylor rose when Helen tiptoed across 
the bare floor. She motioned him back to his seat and 
took a rocker which was near the stove, where the fire- 
light playing through the cracks fell upon her face. Her 
lips were still set, brows drawn, but with the sympathy 
and pain in her eyes was something else, a light, a deter- 
mination which John Taylor had never before beheld in 
the face of a woman. It was something tremendous, 
something beyond his experience; he was not equipped 
to analyze it, though three hours before he had thought 
he knew women — Now he could only sense the power 
of this girl! 


1 64 


TIMBER 


He found that his palms were damp with sweat and that 
his heart was beating rapidly. He felt useless, out of 
place; he was glad that none there gave him attention; 
he would have fled into the rain were it possible to escape 
unnoticed. For the first time John Taylor was looking 
life squarely in the face, with death leering over his 
shoulder. He had not wanted to grub for his money; he 
had come to Blueberry after an easy start toward fortune. 
And these people, no older than he, had been willing 
to grub just for peace — and had failed because Jim 
Harris made easy money. 

For half an hour no sound came from the bedroom. 
Then the girl whispered her husband’s name. 

“Yes, Jenny?” He slipped to his knees and leaned 
across the bed. 

“Hold me close,” she whispered. “Closer! — And 
Thad? — Thad? — Thad?” 

He looked about and shoved the door closed with one 
foot to exclude those others who had come to help and 
could not. They heard a creaking as though he drew the 
girl closer into his arms; they heard his voice murmuring 
and heard hers. Rain rattled on the roof and the thin 
shell of the house; wind yelped at the cornices. The 
steel windmill, out of gear, creaked dolefully as it moved 
in the blow. A distant dog barked and a cow bawled. 
The clock struck rapidly and ticked on. Helen filled the 
stove box with wood and sat down again. 

“If the doctor isn’t here in a few minutes,” she said, 
“you had better go on.” 

“I’ll be glad to. Can’t I go now? ” 

He was eager to escape. 

“No, he may be on the way, and you may be needed here.” 


TIMBER 


65 


The brisk clock and the fire made the only sounds 
within for no noise came from the other room, now. Head- 
lights of a car appeared far off. Helen rose and went to 
the window and as she moved across the room they heard 
Parker stirring behind the closed door. He came out 
walking very slowly, stiffly, carrying the lamp. He put 
it in its bracket and opened the damper in the stove, 
moving mechanically, like a sleep walker. 

“Here comes the doctor, ” said Helen. 

Thad started as though her presence surprised him. 

“Doctor?” he asked, in a croak, that made her look at 
him sharply. 

“Oh, Jesus!” he said. “Oh, Jesus Christ — he’s too 
late!” His legs gave under him. He sank to his knees 
and his weight sagged back upon his heels. His head 
was bowed, with clasped hands pressed against his lips. 
“Too late,” he whispered unsteadily — “She stopped 
worrying — in my arms.” 

It was not yet midnight when Helen Foraker and John 
Taylor drew up before the house in the forest. They 
had not spoken a word on the way back, but after they 
entered the great warm room, Taylor lighted a cigarette 
and spread his hands before the fire and said dully: 

“Lord, that’s terrible!” And then added that which 
was in his mind and had been since he had heard Jennie 
Parker’s talk. “I met Harris in Pancake this morning. 
I’d hate to — ” He did not finish. 

The girl commented dryly: “Jim Harris is one of those 
who don’t care about waiting very long for returns on 
an investment.” 

Taylor recalled the comment he had made on her own 


66 


TIMBER 


forest at the table that night and her words were like a lash 
across his face. 

And at that hour, under live oaks bearded with moss, 
Marcia Murray sat with crossed knees under the steering 
wheel of her runabout. Beside her Philip Rowe lounged, 
a smile on his thin lips, toying with a magnolia blossom. 

“Like a flake of moonlight, ” he said softly, holding it 
up against the shadows. “As white as your throat, 
Marcia!” He dropped the blossom and leaned toward 
her, arm sliding along the back of the seat. 

The girl drew away. “Be cautious,” she murmured. 

“With you, I know no caution — ” 

“You did when John was here.” 

He frowned. “Discretion,” he corrected and his 
glowing eyes twinkled. “I envied him.” 

“He has everything you want, hasn’t he, Phil?” 

“He has you, it seems.” 

“And his father’s fortune?” 

One of Rowe’s hands ran over his chin. “Not yet,” 
he said, and in the casual words was a degree of triumph. 

The girl looked up quickly. “Old Luke does like you, 
doesn’t he?” 

“He likes any one who persists — and persists — and 
persists — With Luke as with others, persistence wins.” 

He leaned further toward her with that, and the smile 
was gone from his eyes; gone from the girl’s face too, 
and she betrayed a flash of bewilderment, of wild guessing; 
the composure came back though, and when he reached 
for her hand again, she let her cool fingers nestle in his 
palm. But she did not permit him to hold her close — 
very close — not that night. 


CHAPTER VII 


The storm ended before dawn and when John Taylor 
awakened it was to see a springtime sun striking through 
the clean green of pine, setting the drops on twig and 
needle blazing with the splendor of jewels. 

He sat up and looked out. The Blueberry hurled 
itself at the high bank opposite him, red and roiled, 
grumbling as it was turned in its course. Upstream he 
saw a stretch of swamp with the slender spires of balsam 
standing behind dead cedar. The sound of an axe, and 
a man’s voice, and the smell of wood smoke drifted in 
through his window. It was all so fresh and vigorous; 
he sprang from bed and drank deeply of the fine air — 
and then remembered. 

Last night’s experience hung at his heart like a cold 
weight. He felt older, more mature. He had seen death 
before, yes, but it had never come close to him as ha)d the 
death of that strange girl, in hopelessness and misery. 
And then there were other factors. This matter of money. 
How Jim Harris made it seemed well enough yesterday 
afternoon, but a half a dozen hours later the practise had 
become peculiarly hideous. Also, Helen Foraker’s attitude, 
his attempt to make a very broad bid for supremacy in 
the natural clash of their personalities, her rebuke and 
her ready dismissal of any evident ill-feeling to ask him 
to ride through the night with her. 

It would have been less uncomfortable had she been 
afraid of him. It would have made him feel important, 
67 


68 


TIMBER 


after a manner; as it was, he felt of very little consequence. 

A car approached and he heard voices, Helen’s and a 
man’s. They entered the room below as he began dressing. 

“There’s nothing any one can do, Milt,” the girl was 
saying. “Some of the neighbors are there, but Thad 
wanted to be left alone, more than anything else. He 
is going to bury her there beside the house. She wanted 
it that way, he said.” Pause. 

“Sim Burns stopped at the mill last night,” the man 
said. “He made threats.” 

“After he had made them to me.” 

“He was here?” 

“Here in this room. He — Mr. Taylor saved me a 
scare by putting him out. He got quite — rough. *’ 

The man before her was big, with gray eyes, light hair, 
huge hands and the supple limbs of a man who has grown 
up in action. 

“Talked taxation, did he?” 

“Yes — that was enough.” 

She sank to her chair and propping her chin in her hands 
stared gloomily through the window. The man stepped 
forward quickly. 

“You know what that means,” he said. “You know he 
has it on you. There is no use trying to fight the law 
even if it is unjust. Can’t you see that? Can’t you quit 
before it is too late?” 

She shook her head. “Don’t Milt, please! I can’t quit 
empty handed!” 

“You’ve a fortune here now. You’re gambling on a 
chance to lose everything and win very little more. It’s — ” 

“It’s only the beginning of the pinch. It was bound 
to come. We’ve got to go through with it!” 


TIMBER 


69 


He leaned over, fists on the desk. “Is that all you can 
think of, Helen? Of the forest? Isn’t there something 
else? Can’t you think of me — just a little?” 

Her face grew troubled. 

“I wish you wouldn’t, Milt. Love is a big, big thing; 
the forest is a big, big thing. I haven’t time for more than 
one big job.” 

He looked at her with his jaw set strangely and after 
a moment breathed: “ Sometimes I hate this damned 
forest!” 

She started sharply. He moved away. 

“Milt Goddard!” The man whirled then. 

“I mean it, ” he cried. “ It stands between you and me! 
It’s all you seem to think about. It’ll be years yet before 
you can win out, if you ever win, and those are the years 
I want with you. The years you need to be loved and 
have somebody to stand between you and trouble.” 

“If you hate the forest, how could you be happy with 
me? The forest is my life.” She had risen and looked 
reproachfully at him. “I do need you. I do depend on 
you. You do stand between me and trouble. Without 
you as my foreman, how could I manage?” 

“It might be different; I might not hate it, if it didn’t 
stand between you and me. ” 

“Then you don’t hate it for any other reason? You 
are — just jealous of it, Milt?” 

“Perhaps I am!” he flared. “Perhaps I’m just crazy 
jealous of it as I am of every other man who looks twice 
at you — Who’s this Taylor?” 

The girl lifted a hand in hopeless gesture and shook 
her head. “Milt, you make it so hard for yourself and me. 
You know who he is, and you know why he is here.” 


70 


TIMBER 


“You didn’t have to take him into your house.*’ 
“There was only one bunk left and there had to be a 
place to let Lucius sober up.” 

“He could have slept in mine,” surlily. 

“I didn’t know when he came that you would be 
away. And — Why, Milt, he wouldn’t fit in the men’s 
shanty! He was so out of place in his leather coat and his 
soft hands. He’s big and strong, but after all he’s only 
a little boy, and not the sort to be thrown with a rough 
crew like we have now. He’s a rich man’s son who has 
never grown up and you feel out of patience and sorry for 
him at the same time. Aren’t you ashamed to let your 
jealousy make you silly?” 

Evidently Milt Goddard was. He grumbled and com- 
plained, but in a few moments he went his way after 
talking about work to be done, though it was clear that 
his mind was yet on his frustrated love-making. Above, 
John Taylor had heard through the grating in the floor. 
At first he had been amused, but when Helen Foraker 
spoke of him as an inconsequential youth who needed 
protection a furious flush swept into his cheeks. It was 
still there when he descended to find the girl at her desk. 

“Good morning,” she said with a nod. “I took a 
liberty with your affairs and sent Lucius back to Pancake. 
I’ve been planning to drive into the hardwood for the 
last week; I can make it today and from there I have to 
go into town, so you may ride with me. ” 

“That wasn’t necessary,” he said coolly. “I had 
intended to spend the day there. ” 

“I’m sorry — I didn’t want the children to see Lucius. 
He is their uncle, the only living relative. Aunty May 
who is responsible for them, doesn’t like to have him 


TIMBER 


71 


around. I waited to explain. Aunty May called you for 
breakfast but you didn’t hear, and the children were up, 
so I took the responsibility.” 

He looked at the clock. It was seven. Helen saw the 
query in his face. 

“We eat at dawn,” she explained. “I was up a trifle 
earlier today because I wanted to drive to Parker’s. ” 

The fact of having overslept, coming on top of the rest, 
made him feel, in truth, like a little boy! She had taken 
him into her house because the crew in the men’s shanty 
were rough; she had been patient when he overslept 
and disturbed the routine of the household. He ate 
alone, served sourly by Aunty May, making the meal 
very short, and when he left the table Helen at once 
rose and reached for her jacket, indicating that she had 
been waiting for him. As they left the house, Pauguk, 
belly down in her kennel, growled raggedly and shivered 
and half rose as though she would launch herself at the 
man who had kicked her yesterday. 

“ You’ll have to watch her,” Helen said. “ She doesn’t 
understand, and she doesn’t forget.” 

They climbed to the single seat of the battered car 
and went north through her forest, through the ranks 
of pine trees, uniform in size, growing closely together, 
crossing those cleared strips at regular intervals. They 
overtook Black Joe and the car stopped while Helen 
talked briefly with him. He carried over one shoulder 
a long implement with a steel blade: a spud of some sort; 
and under one arm was a bundle of what looked at first to 
Taylor like pine twigs, but from the other end protruded 
roots covered with wet clay. Infant trees ready to be 
planted, he told himself, and catching a word in the girl’s 


72 


TIMBER 


talk he knew those lanes which made a checker-board of 
the forest were fire lines. The idea that this folly of Helen 
Foraker’s was no casual happening took shape rapidly in 
his mind. Also, the idea that this girl was a person of 
consequence grew with each detail he learned of her — 

They left the forest, crossed plains, climbed a ridge 
and came into a hardwood slashing, with limbs and 
branches a tangle on the ground, cord wood stacked here 
and there and an occasional lonely and crippled sapling 
standing above the ruin. The road branched, the ruts 
faded out, they dodged stumps and finally came to a 
stop. 

“This is yours, isn’t it?” she asked. 

“Search me! I’ve never been here before; I was 
depending on finding White.” 

“Then you didn’t even know he was gone?” 

“Not until I got to Pancake.” 

She started to speak, but checked herself and looked 
at him searchingly. 

“Where’s the railroad?” he asked. 

“Railroad? Why, the right-of-way is over yonder a 
half mile; the steel’s been taken up.” 

“Taken up?” 

“Didn’t you know that?” she asked. 

He shook his head. Her incredulous question seemed 
to take all the strength from him and he felt a sudden 
natural, unreasoned need to talk. 

“I didn’t know anything about this, it seems,” he 
burst out. “You know and Lucius knows; Jim Harris 
knew, and my father’s attorney in Detroit; my father 
himself knew and his secretary knew. I came up here 
to do the first piece of work I’ve ever tackled, so bull- 


TIMBER 


73 


headed and cock-sure of myself that my pride wouldn’t 
let me ask questions of anybody!” 

He hitched about so he could look squarely into the 
girl’s face. 

“I’ve seen you less than twenty-four hours, but I’ve 
made several kinds of an ass of myself in that time!” 
he went on, voice trembling. “I’ve been sure enough 
of myself before yesterday. I’ve thought I was able to 
judge people and I’ve never felt small before any one in 
my life — especially women. I didn’t like you from the 
first. I thought I’d humble you last night after I put that 
lout out of your house; instead of that you made me feel 
like a — a worm! 

“I heard you tell the man you call Goddard that I 
was only a little boy, the son of a rich man, who’d never 
grown up. That got under my skin — two hours ago ; 
but now I guess maybe you’re right.” He swallowed 
slowly. 

“ Is that going far enough? ” he demanded. “You’re the 
first person I’ve ever run up against who could make me 
say these things about myself. I have never believed them 
myself before. I thought this job was only a preliminary 
step and not to be taken very seriously. But it seems that 
it is a serious matter with me. I’m on trial with my father; 
if I make good here I make good with him and that means 
backing for whatever I may try to do in the future. I 
don’t know what’s wrong with these logs, but everybody 
else does know. It’s my business and I’m not in the 
secret. Now I’m asking you, a stranger, to let me in.” 

He stopped as suddenly as he had begun. For a moment 
the girl eyed him, her whole interest awakened. 

“ Get out, and I’ll show you, ” she said almost curtly. 


74 


TIMBER 


He followed her over tops, around piles of brush, to 
the brink of a sharp, deep ravine. The river could be 
heard murmuring not far off* a partridge whirred up from 
their feet, and a squirrel scolded from a sapling None 
of this did Taylor sense, nor was he conscious of the girl’s 
eyes on him. He saw only logs! Logs by the hundreds; 
logs by the thousands, trainloads of logs! Logs on end, 
logs criss-crossed, logs in a wonderful, hopeless tangle at 
the bottom of that ravine. To right and left the depres- 
sion extended; to right and left went the logs. Logs three 
feet in diameter; logs as small as six inches through. 
Logs, logs — logs — in a meaningless jumble. 

“Why — Why are they here?” 

She let one hand drop limply. 

“All you knew was that logs had been left in the 
woods?” 

“That’s all.” 

“It’s been the talk of the country,” she said. “White 
contracted with your father to cut this forty. He went 
at it the last thing and was paid for the scale on the decks. 
He was not to get his pay until the woods were clean, 
but the snow went with a rush; he knew it wouldn’t let 
him finish the haul so he dumped them here. The inspector 
who represented your father looked over the slash and 
found the woods clear. White got his money and was 
gone. They started taking up the railroad two weeks 
before this was discovered. It’s thirteen miles to the 
main line.” 

. A wave of hot rage swept through Taylor’s body, 
making his face dark. He knew then what the chuckling 
of his father had meant; he interpreted Rowe’s smirk; 
he reasoned out Jim Harris’ comments. He knew why 


TIMBER 


75 


Lucius and this girl had been surprised at his errand. 

“Tricked!” he laughed bitterly. 

“Of course you were tricked. White — ” 

“Not by White! White tricked my father and he 
passed the trick to me. This was to be my start in life. 
He told me I didn’t know saw logs from bumble-bees, 
but I know enough to realize that with this mess thirteen 
miles from a railroad, he might as well have given me so 
many — worn-out shoes!” 

He laughed again and drew a cigarette from his case 
with unsteady fingers, lighted it and broke the match 
savagely. 

“He can have his logs!” blowing smoke through his 
nostrils. “He can have his logs and let ’em rot for all of 
me! I’ll find some other way to make my beginning!” 

Helen’s gaze travelled down the ravine to the river, 
flashing in the sunlight, to the swamp on the far side 
with dead cedar standing against the background of 
her pine; but her eyes did not reach the pine; they 
remained close to the river’s bank where a strip of white 
sand showed and where the sunlight glistened on the 
wet bark of cedar poles drying from last night’s rain. 
There were many poles on the skids — many poles — 

“A quicker way?” she asked, almost casually. 

“Quicker and easier.” 

“And what if these logs spoil?” 

“Well, what of it?” he challenged. “What’s that to 
me?” 

“Nothing, perhaps — but maybe it should be.” He 
eyed her closely, interest in what she was driving at over- 
coming for the moment his anger. “Were you in the 
army?” 


76 


TIMBER 


“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Excitement, and everybody was doing it.” 

“Nothing more?” 

“Oh — it was up to me.” 

“Because we were all in trouble. Yes. We are all 
going to be in trouble again before long if people go on 
wasting logs and the opportunities to grow more logs. ” 
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently, but she did not 
appear to notice. “We have only a fifty-year cut of 
virgin timber left in this whole country. Trees are second 
in importance only to food. What are we going to do 
when it is gone?” 

“Fifty years is a long time away.” 

“Europe was three thousand miles away.” 

“Say, what are you getting at?” he demanded. 

“Two things: The first is, that saving these logs is a 
necessary thing; not perhaps, for you and me, but for 
the country we live in. It’s only three hundred thousand 
feet or so, but it’s going to save just that much standing 
timber if it’s made use of. And the next is that I have 
from my father a natural fear of waste — waste of material 
and waste of men and women. ” He removed his cigarette 
and flicked off the ash absently. “You admitted back 
in the car that you had never done anything you can 
point to. You’re about twenty-five years old, aren’t you? 
You have already commenced to go to waste — ” 

“I’m through, though! I’m — ” 

“You’re dodging the first job because it is hard.” 

“ No, because they tried to trick me. ” 

“And if you give up they’ll succeed.” He arrested the 
cigarette on it’s way back to his lips. “ Don’t you see that? 


TIMBER 


77 


The laugh will be on you, then. Maybe you’ll do better 
in a small sense to give this up and try something else. 
Your father gave you these logs, I take it, because he 
thought you would fail. If you do fail you’re wasting an 
opportunity to show him, among other things, that his 
joke was cruel, aren’t you?” 

“I’ll show him yet, in some other way.” 

“But what about your pride?” 

“Haven’t any.” 

“Only a few moments ago you told me that you hadn’t 
asked about this open secret because you were too proud. 
You didn’t like to think yesterday that people wouldn’t 
make a fuss over you.” He frowned, letting his eyes 
run over the ravine. “Isn’t there something to what I 
say? Haven’t you a great deal of pride?” 

A new emotion was stirring in young John Taylor. 
He was in a corner, without argument. He was trying 
to slide around the obstacle directly in his path, looking 
for an easy way out — and he was proud; but in this 
hour he had become humble and more honest with himself 
than he had ever been before. 

“Maybe I have,” he said, “but what can I do? 
Here are the logs; the railroad is gone, they’ll spoil before 
snow. ” 

“Whatever is done must be done at once.” Her eyes 
travelled again down to the river and rested on the decks 
of cedar poles. “Do you want to try to turn this joke 
on your father, and do something hard and to be a pretty 
good American in peace times by saving this timber?” 

“Will you show me the way?” he asked sharply. 

She smiled and shook her head. 

“I don’t know the way. I have an idea, but maybe 


78 


TIMBER 


it won’t work. First, though, I want you to go to Pancake 
and put it up to the best logger you can find in town. If 
he has an idea, consider it; if he hasn’t, maybe I can 
help.” 

He pulled the cigarette from its holder and dropped it 
upon the ground. His face was flushed, lips parted in a 
smile of growing eagerness. The girl put out her foot 
and ground the coal of the cigarette to extinction. Then 
she lifted her face to him for answer. 

John Taylor laughed shortly. 

“As far as I can see, that’s not unreasonable,” he said. 
“Let’s go!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


“Who’s the best authority on timber around here?” 

John Taylor, hanging over the desk in the Commercial 
House, put that question to Henry Wales, the proprietor. 
Henry applied a match to his refractory pale cigar and 
coughed and spit. 

“Humphrey Bryant,” he said. 

“Lumberman?” 

“Nope. Editor of the Banner. State Senator since 
God knows when. But he knows logs.” 

“Reliable?” 

“Well, yes. He aint very pop’lar in his home town; 
got a lot of fool ideas about holdin’ back the country, 
but I guess his word’s good.” 

John went to the post-office after his mail and put 
the same question to the owlish postmaster. The man 
craned his neck that he might look through the wicket 
across the street to the office of the Blueberry Banner. 

“ Go over to the Banner office, ” he rasped asthmatically. 
“He’s there at his desk. Hump Bryant. He knows all 
there is to know. ” 

At the bank he was referred to the same man by the 
fussy little proprietor, and Jim Harris who met him on 
the street waved a hand toward the newspaper office 
and stated that Hump Bryant knew more about logs 
than Paul Bunion himself. Harris wanted to talk further 
i, but Taylor broke away; he had a feeling that the man 
^was defiled and though he could detect no hardness behind 

79 


80 


TIMBER 


the good humor, the words of the dying woman last night 
echoed in his ears and made him uneasy so long as he was 
within sight of Harris. 

The office of the Blueberry Banner was a dingy, dusty, 
dark little place, smelling as all newspaper offices have 
smelled from time beyond reckoning. An unpainted 
partition divided the front from the back office and it was 
plastered with newspaper clippings, many of them yellowed 
by age and dimmed by accumulated dust. The floor was 
of pine, the boards worn thin except where brown knots 
showed up like wens. A table in one corner was stacked 
high with a mixture of unopened mail, bundles of old 
papers and what not. Dusty files of the Banner , bound 
in calf -skin, reposed on shelves; a picture of Lincoln 
hung askew over them and on the opposite wall was a 
lithograph of Hazen S. Pingree. 

At a cluttered desk sat an old man, a small, round, old 
man, who struck John at once as being the original for 
all the Santa Clauses that ever tooled a reindeer four- 
some. He was writing and as Taylor entered he looked 
up, put the thick lead of his pencil against the tip of his 
tongue and studied the new comer abstractedly with his 
bright blue eyes. The pencil went to the pad and labori- 
ously scrawled a coarse line; then the blue eyes came 
back to John’s face, twinkling brightly this time. 

“Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” he said. 

John smiled. “News travels quickly.” 

“Yes. There’s little fresh in a weekly newspaper up 
here except the advertising and plate matter. Have a 
chair; make yourself comfortable.” 

“I suppose you, like every one else, know why I am 
up here?” 


TIMBER 


81 


A pink tongue roved the lips behind the whiskers and 
the bright eyes studied Taylor's face again. He took off, 
his glasses, which had been shoved back on his forehead, 
and swung one stubby leg slowly. 

“Have you seen your father's logs?" 

“I've seen the logs. They happen to be mine though." 

“Yours, eh? What are you going to do with them?" 

“That's what I came here to ask you." 

“Why to me?" 

“Men in town tell me you know all there is to know 
about logging and I need expert advice. " 

The old editor wheezed a laugh. 

“Meet any of my political enemies?" 

“If I did, I didn't find it out." 

“They're lax! Wait until fall an' election time and 
you'll hear what a scoundrel I am — hum-m-m — It's 
advice you're after, eh? Since you've come to me, then, 
I'll get personal right off. How much do these logs stand 
you in where they are?" 

Taylor moved uneasily. 

“My pride, sir — all of it. " The foot stopped swinging. 
“My father gave them to me for my start. He was quite 
sure that I would fall down. I'm inclined to think that 
he wants me to fall down." 

The editor’s eyes lost some of their brightness and 
something like concern showed there. 

“That’s too bad, son. It's a heavy investment and the 
job's a tough one. Do you know anything about logging 
yourself? " 

“Nothing. Except that with logs thirteen miles from 
a railroad, with snow gone, the owner is up against it." 

A pause. 


82 


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“To cut ’em up for chemical wood wouldn’t get out 
what you’ve put into them, would it? No — anybody 
could do that. ” He leaned back, locking his hands behind 
his head and stared at the ceiling. “ There isn’t any 
possibility of trucking them out by team or tractor without 
eating up their value. I don’t know of a portable mill 
that’s available, and with deliveries on machinery as they 
are, you couldn’t depend on getting one for months — 

“By George, Taylor, I don’t know!” 

A man smeared with ink appeared from the back 
office and the editor excused himself. He had no more 
than disappeared when the outer door opened and Sim 
Burns entered. He did not recognize Taylor until he 
had approached the desk; then he flushed and sniffed. 

“Mornin’,” he said, rather timidly. John nodded. 
Silence, while Bums shuffled — He cleared his throat. 
“I expect I owe you an apology, Mr. Taylor,” he said 
with a servile whine in his voice. 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

This reassured the man, who said with more confidence: 
“ All of us makes mistakes. I didn’t know who you was or—” 

Bryant reentered the room in time to interrupt Burns’ 
attempt to ingratiate himself with the son of the rich 
Luke Taylor, whose identity he had learned soon after 
reaching Pancake the night before. 

“Want to pay what I owe, Hump,” he said, drawing 
out a purse. “It’s two dollars.” 

“Just the price of a fifty-cent work shirt,” said the 
editor with a chuckle. Sim did not respond. “Is this 
an election bet, Sim, or a promise?” 

“I don’t notice you’re spreadin’ yourself on congratula- 
tions. ” 


TIMBER 


83 


“No, and your hearing is excellent, ” grimly. 

“I knew what you was up to, Bryant! I knew you tried 
to get somebody to run ag’in me. ” 

“Yup. They’re all afraid of you up there, Sim. Your 
uncle was town boss so long he got ’em thinking it belongs 
to the Burns family.” 

“If we don’t own it, we seem to be in charge.” 

“And more ’s the pity, Sim!” 

The man turned to the door. 

“Much obliged for the two-dollar plaster.” Slam! 
And a rattle of loose glass: the only reply. 

The old man laughed to himself and sat down, but 
he did not turn to Taylor at once. He watched Burns 
cross the street. A limp curtain in an upper front room 
of the Commercial House moved back and Jim Harris’ 
face appeared. His hand beckoned to the new supervisor. 
Sim went into the hotel and up the stairs. 

From a drawer Bryant took a worn note book and 
opened it slowly. He glanced at the clock and on a fresh 
page wrote: 

“May 6, 1920. 11.09 a.m. Sim Burns.” 

He riffled the pages slowly. Many of them were covered 
with just such notes: dates and time and names; nothing 
more. He dropped the book and folded his hands across 
his stomach and looked at John very soberly. 

“Son, I’m up a tree and don’t see a way down, ” he said. 

The boy looked through the window again and the editor 
watched his profile carefully. For a moment they were 
so and then Taylor’s expression changed as a shade of 
hope filtered through its seriousness. Helen Foraker 
was coming across the muddy street, the bright red of 
her jacket a vivid splotch of color in the drab little town. 


84 


TIMBER 


“She,” gesturing, “sent me here,” John said. 

Helen entered and the men rose, the old editor bowing 
with a mixture of courtliness and paternal affection. 

“Sit down, Helen,” he said gently. “Mr. Taylor says 
you sent him to me.” 

“Indirectly. I asked him to locate Pancake’s best 
logger. I knew who it would be, but I didn’t want to 
send him to you because I didn’t want to risk suspicion. ” 

“Suspicion?” 

She nodded. “What have you told Mr. Taylor?” 

She glanced at John and Bryant said: 

“He brings a problem I can’t solve. It isn’t in the book. ” 

“Give up?” The girl’s eyes danced. 

“Give up,” said the other, bowing. 

“And you?” Taylor merely shrugged for reply. 

“Then my proposal won’t have much competition!” 

The editor’s fat leg stopped swinging. “ Your proposal? 
You mean you want to buy these logs?” 

“No. I want to handle them, though, and maybe 
saw the lumber.” 

“Saw it!” The desk chair rocked forward with a wail 
of its old springs. “How in the world, Helen, are you 
going to get it to the mill? It’s sixteen miles by road 
and that means — ” 

“That hauling is impossible, but there is the river!” 

She looked at Taylor with that and he quickly retorted : 
“River? You can’t float hardwood!” 

It was one of the few facts of logging on which he was 
sure and he thought, for the moment, that his ignorance 
was being imposed upon, but she said: 

“The ash, basswood and hemlock, except the butt-logs, 
will float. You remember the cedar poles I cut two years 


TIMBER 


83 , 

i 

ago?” turning to the editor, “and the water went down? 
We were short-handed and I left them banked. They’re 
right at the mouth of this ravine. We can dog the maple 
and beech and birch to the hemlock and cedar and raft 
it to my mill. It will be very simple. ” 

She looked again at Taylor. 

“I’ll make you that proposition: get the logs to my 
mill at the cost and twenty per cent and if you think I 
am going to trim you, you can hire somebody to watch. 
You can ship your logs by rail from the mill siding or I’ll 
saw them; custom job — and you’d better let me saw 
them. There isn’t any jack-works to get them from the 
pond to the track and your hardwood will begin dead- 
heading in a hurry, so it ought to come out of the water 
as fast as it gets to the mill. Cars are hard to get right now 
and you might have to handle twice. ” 

She turned to Bryant who had watched closely. 

“I’ll leave it to you, Humphrey, if that isn’t fair 
enough for a salvage job. If he shipped to a mill it’d be 
anyway a forty-mile rail haul and I don’t know as he 
could get it done that close. Besides it’d add to the cost 
to handle them again at the pond. I don’t think it’s prac- 
tical to get them out with a cross-haul or swing boom 
and tackle.” 

Taylor’s heart filled with relief, covering the rising 
suspicion that perhaps these two were conspiring to 
gouge him on this proposal. For the first time since he 
had looked into that jack-pot and beheld the trick gift 
which his father had thrust upon him, he saw hope ahead. 

Humphrey Bryant was rubbing a hand vigorously over 
his beard and the smile which made his eyes so bright 
ran out into a chuckle. 


86 


TIMBER 


“My dear/’ he said to the girl. “There was at first 
something in you of the Blessed Damosel; then came a 
strain of Joan of Arc; this morning, I see the qualities 
of Catharine of Russia!” 

John joined in the laugh and then checked himself. 
A moment before he had been desperate enough to 
consent to any sort of an arrangement, but now with the 
girl’s proposal before him some instinct running in his 
blood from the blood of his canny father sounded a 
warning. Her statement seemed reasonable enough and 
simple. His logs could be transported and sawed but, he 
wondered, what would be left for him? 

And he began rather falteringly to find that out. He 
asked foolish questions and was answered patiently; 
technical points were explained to him; the layout of 
the mill, which had been sawing only light pine logs into 
box wood, would have to be changed somewhat for the 
job; he learned of the bark market, of freight rates, of 
many factors which, an hour before, had been foreign 
to his interest. He learned, it is written here; he did not 
learn much; he was told, he understood, but the informa- 
tion slipped from one ear through the other, because this 
was all so amazingly new and remote from any interest 
he had ever held. 

For 'two hours they discussed the job, and John went 
out to walk and talk with Ezam Grainger, the banker, 
and finally he went back to the office of the Banner to sign 
the formal agreement. With no little temerity, true, 
because it was like putting his name to a blank check. 
Still, there was in the manner of Humphrey Bryant that 
which induced confidence and trust, and as for the girl — 
he was beginning to find her quite complex and, though 


TIMBER 


87 


he sensed the truth that she was a shrewd bargainer, he be- 
lieved that those level brown eyes could conceal no crooked 
thought, that her fine voice would speak no untruth. 

Helen and Bryant remained in the Banner office and 
John walked over to the Commercial House. The day 
seemed one of the brightest he had ever seen; the sense 
of inferiority that had been upon him earlier was gone, 
absorbed in a new sort of self-satisfaction. 

Today’s decision meant money; not a great deal, 
perhaps — but money; and honest money. Somehow, 
this qualification had never been of much more than 
casual importance but within the last twenty-four hours 
a change had taken place in him, as decided as a chemical 
reaction. He wanted money more now than he had ever 
wanted it before, but after last night’s experience out 
in Thad Parker’s house he was rather particular about 
how it should come to him! 

He sat down in the dingy little office of the hotel and 
wrote at length to Marcia, telling her little of what had 
happened except that things were going well, exhausting 
his vocabulary in love making. 

While he wrote, Helen talked gravely to Humphrey 
Bryant. He listened, as gravely, to the story of the visit 
that Sim Burns had paid her and when she finished he 
nodded. 

“It begins to connect,” he commented. 

“With what?” 

For a protracted interval he eyed her speculatively as 
a physician might look when debating the question of 
telling a patient the worst. 

“To a movement that is on foot to build roads and 
more schools in the Harris Development district, that 


88 


TIMBER 


more gullible men and women may lay their hopes on 
the altar of his greed!” He looked down at his desk. 
“This is Jenny Parker’s obituary, Helen — ” He paused. 
“Roads and schools cost money and this is a poor county. 
The Thad Parkers can’t build highways; Chief Pontiac 
Power won’t; but Jim Harris needs improvements to 
swell his profits. Jim Harris was behind Sim Burns in 
his election. There’s only one property left, politically 
unprotected, that can foot big bills.” 

Some of the color went from her face 

“And that is why they threaten to tax Foraker’s Folly 
out of the country?” 

“It looks that way. We can’t fool ourselves on the 
direction of the wind.” 

He rose and paced the floor, rummaging in the pockets 
of his baggy trousers. Thrice he went the width of the 
office before the girl, hands lax in her lap, looked up. 
Then she said: 

“I’m depending on you, so! You’re the only friend I 
have who can stand behind me — or before me. My 
father could teach me forestry, but in the game of trickery 
— he was a child.” 

The old man rested a hand on her shoulder. 

“At the next session of the legislature,” he said, “we 
may be able to make some headway in protecting you 
from our asinine laws. And until then, I’ll be with you 
from soup to — Omega!” 

Outside, a man loitering on the walk, started suddenly 
across the street. A curtain in that upstairs front room 
of the hotel had moved slightly. The editor took the 
worn book from his desk drawer and wrote painstakingly: 

“11.57 a.m. Wes. Hubbard.” 


CHAPTER IX 


That was the sixth of April. 

On the morning of the seventh Milt Goddard and 
Helen Foraker were covering the country by car and 
telephone for teams and men. The slide which dragged 
logs by endless chain from river to mill was overhauled, 
the blacksmith in Pancake was at work early making a 
quantity of chain dogs, and a wagonload of supplies 
went into White’s abandoned camps, the nearest shelter 
to the ravine in which the logs had been abandoned. 

That night, Black Joe dragged out his turkey and 
brought to light his aged Grand Rapids driving boots, 
unused but carefully preserved these many years. He 
greased them again and sharpened the corks, handling 
the foot gear with an odd excitement. The next morning 
he was on the stream early with dynamite, wire and his 
buzzer, and the heavy detonations of the explosive punctu- 
ated the day as he tore from their anchorage those snags 
which had impeded nothing but driftwood for a decade 
or more. 

Three weeks later, for there were delays, the first raft, 
old Joe ankle-deep but top-side on the sluggish maple, 
dogged to cedar, swung to a stop against the boom at 
the mill and began crawling one by one, up to the waiting 
band-saw. 

On a morning in mid-May, Luke Taylor sat in the 
library of his Detroit home, dictating to Philip Rowe. 

89 


90 


TIMBER 


He spoke a phrase or a sentence at a time and looked 
with his hard old eyes out through the broad windows, 
down the sweep of formal garden toward the river. His 
gaze did not go as far as the water, though ; it was arrested 
half way, not on the Grecian terrace of marble, but on 
the trees that stood above it, bending their tops lightly 
in the breeze. They were white pines, planted there 
years ago despite the protests of the landscape architect 
who planned that garden; that group of trees was the 
only item that interested the man who had paid him his 
fee. It had been Luke’s only demand : that White Pine — 
capitalized — be placed where he could see it from 
every south window in the mansion. 

From the expression on the old man’s face or from the 
tone of his voice, the occasion might have been of little 
importance. A look at his secretary, however, would 
have indicated that this moment was of great conse- 
quence — to some one; his hand, holding the pencil, 
trembled slightly in the waits, and the veins on his 
forehead, close up under the sleek hair, stood out in knots. 

Luke went on: 

“To my son, John Taylor — the sum of fifty dollars — 
weekly — so long as he may — ” 

A flush swept up over Rowe’s forehead and a sharp 
gleam of triumph showed in his lowered eyes. 

“And for the administrator — ” Luke paused, working 
his mouth vigorously, and cast a glance at the head of the 
younger man, bowed over his book; his glance was 
crafty, and yet in it was something of good humor, 
something of favor, perhaps something of admiration — 
possibly, too, something that almost reached affection. 
He did not know that Rowe’s heart stopped, that a chill 


TIMBER 


91 


flashed down his limbs. This was the moment, the one 
he had plotted and planned — the moment when a new 
administrator would be named in a new will — 

But before Luke could go on the door opened, a maid 
slipped in and dropped letters on the desk. 

The intrusion distracted the old man, whose eyes rested 
on the mail. Rowe followed the girl’s retreat from the 
room as though he could have harmed her for that break — 
and Luke was saying: 

“ What’s in the mail, Rowe? Anything from — ” 

The other put his note book down and ran through the 
letters. 

“From McLellan — Internal Revenue collector, Red 
Cross — Here’s one from Pancake.” 

“From John?” The old man leaned forward sharply. 
“He’s written at last, eh? Read it!” 

“You don’t want to finish the matter of the will, then?” 

“That can wait! Read what the cub says,” with an 
impatient gesture. “First letter in all these weeks. 
What th’ devil ’s he up to?” 

Rowe’s fingers were unsteady as they tore open the 
envelope and rattled the creases from the paper. He read 
aloud. 

“Dear Father: It has been nearly a month since I left 
you to take up this job and I have not written for two 
reasons. First, I have been very busy learning necessary 
things; secondly, I’ve had nothing definite to tell 
you.” 

Rowe paused, and his face lost color. 

“Go on,” said Luke. 

“Today, the first two cars of maple started rolling. 
They go to Bender of Detroit at $76 for No. 2 Common 


92 


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and better on track. The quality grades up to average — 
Hastily, John.” 

“P.S. I’m well, happy and busy. Love to mother.” 

Rowe’s eyes went back over the paragraphs and his 
brows contracted a bit. Old Luke was very still a moment; 
then he said grimly: 

“Read that again.” 

Rowe did, his voice not just steady. 

“There’s a trick somewhere. Call Bender!” 

On the telephone Rowe got the head of the lumber 
firm. 

“Mr. Bender, this is Rowe, Mr. Luke Taylor’s secre- 
tary—” 

“Bookkeeper! Bookkeeper!” mumbled Luke irritably. 

“ — and I’m inquiring about lumber from Blueberry 
County — You did — Yes, Mr. John Taylor — you. 
Thank you, sir — ” 

He turned to Luke. “They bought all right.” 

“At that price?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The old man wriggled as nearly erect as his back would 
permit and smote the floor a stout blow with his cane. 
“Sellin’ the lumber , Rowe! Sellin’ lumber! When McLellan 
had the best men he knows about on the job and they 
reported it was a dead loss! He’s took logs that nobody’d 
touch and ’s makin’ ’em into lumber an’ sellin’ it green 
under my nose!” 

His words gave way to a spasm of wheezy laughter 
and he waved his cane. 

“I don’t understand it,” snapped Rowe. 

“Understand! Understand it? Why, damn it, it’s 
as plain as a mole on a pretty girl’s chin! The young 


TIMBER 


93 


buck’s got something in him, Rowe. I thought he didn’t. 
I tried to show him up — and by the Lord Harry, he’s 
showin’ me up! Showin’ us up, Rowe.” 

He laughed again until he strangled for breath. 

Rowe picked up his note book and sat down. “Do you 
want to go on?” he asked. 

“With the will? The will, eh? — ” Luke mumbled to 
himself and his blue eyes studied his secretary’s face; 
then went out to that clump of pine. “No — no, Rowe. 
We won’t go on with that, today. Telephone McLellan 
I’ve changed my mind about changin’ my will — for 
a few days — a few days — He won’t need to come out 
here this afternoon — Fifty dollars a week an’ th’ young 
buck fooled me! He laughed last, Rowe, he’s laughed — 

“Here, take a letter!” 

The smile in his eyes was brighter. 

“John Taylor, esquire, Pancake, Mich. Yours of 
recent date received and contents noted. Your mother 
is well. Yours truly. 

“P.S. Bender is making his cracks that he beat you 
on your first shipment. Watch the market and don’t be 
a bigger damn fool than you can help.” 

He grinned. Rowe looked up sullenly at this statement 
which had no foundation in fact. 

“A line in time often gathers a lot of moss, Rowe,” 
remarked Luke. “Now send his mother here — hurry!” 

Curled on a chaise longue in her chintz-draped bed- 
room, Marcia Murray, too, read a letter from Pancake 
that forenoon, read with a mounting flush in her cheek 
and a light in her blue eyes that was not of good nature. 

For a month, now, these letters had registered a cumula- 


94 


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tive change in John Taylor. He had gone away a cynical, 
blase, conceited young man of the world; he was losing 
that cynicism and indifference; he was becoming as 
enthusiastic, as impulsive as a university sophomore, 
and as wrought up over his success as a normal twelve- 
year-old is over the capture of his first fish and game. 
And to Marcia Murray his rewards were about as signifi- 
cant. 

In this letter he told of the sale of his first lumber 
and figured for her the approximate profit ; he forecasted 
the grand total that his venture would yield, setting it off 
with underscoring and exclamation points, but as the girl 
read, her thin lips drew up in the suggestion of a curl. 
Where a month ago his letters had consisted of a dignified 
and assured love-making, they now chattered on about 
people who did not interest her at all; Humphrey Bryant, 
of whom John wrote as a firm friend; about a person 
named Black Joe — evidently not colored — who refused 
John his confidence; and about Helen Foraker, with a 
repression and an irregularity in the style which Marcia 
did not detect. 

She finished this letter: 

“I'm awfully sorry, but it won’t be possible for me to 
spend much time at the house party at Dick Mason’s 
lodge. You go, by all means, and I may be able to spend 
Sundays there. It’s hard, Marcia, to give up that sort of 
thing, but I’m beginning to feel that my father wasn’t so 
far wrong in thinking I didn’t amount to much. The 
more I think of it the less I am inclined to ever ask a 
favor of him. This that I am making is all my own.” 

Her eyes lingered on that paragraph and her slender 
brows quirked; she glanced idly back over the letter, 


TIMBER 


93 


stopping again on the page where he forecasted his possible 
profits. She folded the paper and placed it in the envelope 
and as she tossed it to the dressing table there was some- 
thing savage in the gesture and she sniffed disdainfully.^ 

In the hall a telephone jingled and she went to answer it. 

“ Hello — Oh, yes, Phil — No, not tonight, thank 
you — Oh, Fve a headache — By the way, Phil, has 
Mr. Taylor heard from John? He has? No — Yes — 
after all, you might take me out a while this evening — 
about nine? Good-bye.” 

Looking at the reflection of her cool blue eyes as her 
cool small hands worked in her golden hair, Marcia 
spoke again: 

“Of course, if he should please his — But, damn it all! 
He doesn’t want the old crab’s money!” 


CHAPTER X 


On Helen Foraker’s suggestion, John had gone to live 
in the men’s shanty with Milt Goddard, Black Joe and 
the balance of the crew that had not been shifted to the 
White camp. 

“This is your job,” she said. “I am only working for 
you. I’ll be more comfortable if you see what is going 
on both on the river and at the mill, and you can’t see if 
you stay in town.” 

It was not a congenial shelter for him. He was out of 
place, did not belong to the class of men with whom he 
ate and slept and his reputation as a “mixer” in that 
other existence he had lived did him no good here. More, 
Goddard was surly and gruff, as his deeply rooted jealousy 
prompted. Black Joe ignored John and would respond 
to none of his advances. When Taylor asked questions 
Joe would look about and grunt scornfully and say to 
some one : 

“Did you hear that? He,” brandishing his pipe stem 
toward John, “wants to know if — ” repeating the 
question. Then he would answer explosively: “Of course 
it is!” Or: “Hell, no!” giving by tone and manner the 
inference that none but an addle-pate would have put 
such a query. 

After their agreement was signed, Taylor had nothing 
of a personal nature in common with Helen Foraker. 
Their conversations were all brief and wholly concerned 
with the work and much of her talk was as Greek to 


96 


TIMBER 


97 ' 

i 

Taylor. He watched the girl closely, with a growing 
humility, which, strangely, he did not resent. He saw 
her those first days, among the men in the ravine where 
teams snaked the logs from their jumble to the river’s 
edge, where they were caught in a boom and dogged into 
rafts. She was sparing of words, untiring, always alert, 
and she knew what was going on. He heard her challenge 
the method of a teamster whose horses were stuck when 
the log they skidded jammed between two great stumps. 

“ Back now, and swing in gee, ” she said sharply. “Don’t 
yell at them! You’ve got your team up in the air. Try 
it again — Haw, now!” 

The log was obstinate, the teamster flushing as others 
looked on to see her directions sting his pride. 

“If you don’t like my way, why don’t you try it your- 
self?” he asked. 

She dropped from the log on which she stood, took the 
reins from him, tried and failed; let the team rest, rubbed 
their noses, eased the collars, and started them again — 
They strained together, skin wrinkling over their broad 
rumps, they grunted, swung, and the log started forward. 

“Now you take them,” she said, returning the lines. 
“You’ll go farther with a low voice.” 

She had been right. The man grinned himself because 
he had been wrong and shown up fairly. 

Taylor saw her rebuke a youth for carelessly driving 
in the dog-wedge. 

“That won’t hold,” she said, kicking the wedge with 
her boot toe. “If that raft goes to pieces and that one 
log dead-heads, we’re losing as much as we’re paying 
you for a day’s work. Knock it out and put it in right!” 

The boy did. In the vernacular of the men, she got 


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away with it; and because she knew and was sure she 
knew. 

He saw a farmer who had come to work for a few days 
standing close behind a team as the driver prepared to 
skid out a log. 

“ That’s dangerous,” Helen called out. 

The man grumbled that he had been in the woods before, 
but did not move. 

The horses started forward and hung and strained — 
and one tooth of the heavy tongs slipped from its hold 
and the implement shot forward, spinning over, struck 
the man’s thigh and bit savagely into the flesh before 
the horses, lurching forward at the sudden relief of strain, 
could be stopped. The tongs fell away but the polished 
steel was smeared with blood and the man’s pants leg 
darkened quickly with it. 

Helen was the first to his side, borrowing a knife, 
slitting his clothing, exposing the two ugly holes in the 
flesh, one of which spurted an alarming stream where 
an artery had been torn. She took the man’s suspenders, 
bound them about his leg above the injury and twisted 
the tourniquet tight with a stick — She was gone most 
of the day, remaining in camp with the man until the 
doctor from Pancake had come to dress the injury, and 
then going herself to tell his family of the accident. 

(They recounted this of her while she waited for the 
doctor: “ ‘Swear’, she says. ‘Swear if it hurts too much. 
I’ve heard worse oaths than you can invent!’ ”) 

Another item: He heard men on the job scoffing at 
the idea of timber as a crop; in Pancake he saw men grin 
and mutter to one another as Helen passed, and knew 
that the girl was aware that she was being laughed at 


TIMBER 


99 


derisively. Her manner on such occasions was striking ;-the 
soldiers of his company would have given her the blanket 
characterization of the army and said that she was hard- 
boiled; his mother would have said that she carried a 
chip on her shoulder; Taylor himself thought her defiance 
splendid. She could not divorce herself from her forest; 
when men belittled it and the idea behind it, it was as 
though they had made uncouth fun of her. To be a 
friend of the girl required that sympathy for her under- 
taking be made evident; to be outside her favor it was 
necessary only to show no charity for the work her father 
started. Nothing else seemed to influence her to any 
extent. 

Such things he saw, and others: Saw her jump lightly 
from log to log as she went over the face of that tangle, 
poised like a splendid animal, lithe and alive and as sure 
of her body as she was of her mind. He watched her 
cross the river, leaving behind a rank of logs which rose 
sluggishly from the immersion her weight gave them, 
but she reached the boom of high-riding cedars without 
wetting her stout boots. And he saw her in a canoe, 
driving the light craft upstream, arms and shoulders 
and torso working with a rhythm which set his heart 
in faster measure. 

He had been at the mill one morning and was walking 
through the forest to the skidway. At the house Black 
Joe came from the woods and scarcely grunted in return 
to John’s salutation. But after Taylor had passed, he 
heard the man hail him. 

Turning about, he saw Aunty May standing in the 
kitchen door. They were within ear-shot of the woman, 
but Joe said, “Say, tell her Miss Helen won’t be down for 


100 


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dinner. She wants to know if Hump Bryant’s tele- 
phoned.” 

Taylor repressed a smile at this strange procedure which 
he had witnessed on several occasions, and repeated the 
information and the question. 

“Tell him,” said Aunty May, “that there ain’t been 
a ’phone call all forenoon.” 

Gravely Taylor passed along the message and then, 
as the woman turned into the house and Joe went on, 
he resumed his way. 

A childish shout from below checked him on the high 
bank and he looked down to see Bobby and Bessy in the 
baby trap. That was what all Foraker’s Folly called 
the small, dry sand bar, separated from the bank by a 
dozen feet of shallow water and reached by a small foot 
bridge made of stakes driven firmly in and planks laid 
along them. Each fair morning Aunty May shooed her 
charges across the bridge and then drew the planks to 
shore, thereby isolating the children on their sand bar and 
leaving her wholly free for the housework. 

“ There! 1 ' she would say each time she disposed of them. 
“ Now I know where you younguns are at!” 

The peril of water was deeply planted in their hearts 
and they never attempted the easy wade to shore. 

However, playing in the clean sand grew monotonous 
and though the children never openly protested, they 
were full of excuses to delay their isolation, full of enthu- 
siasm when released and ever on the watch for some passer 
who might be waylaid and induced to talk. Bobby, 
seeing Taylor, had halted him without excuse, but when 
John stopped the youngster pointed toward shore and 
cried: 


TIMBER 


101 


“Look! Looky!” 

“At what?” 

1 1 There ! Somepin — ’ ’ 

“A kic-kic,” said Bessy. 

Bobby grinned. “ She means a cricket. That’s what it 
is. I fought it was somepin worse. ” 

Taylor smiled, seeing the ruse, commented casually 
and started on. 

“Did you see Black Joe?” Bobby was standing on the 
shore side of the bar now, toes almost in the water, and 
Bessy was beside him, finger in her mouth, wide-eyed 
in expectancy at this game she knew so well. 

“Yes, I saw Joe. Why?” 

“ Oh — we seen — saw him too. ” 

Bessy waved a hand at the river behind her. 

“We see wog go by-by, ” she trebled. 

Her brother smiled and straightened her sunbonnet. 
“She says, we watch the logs go by, ” he interpreted. 

“Wotta wog — wotta big wog.” 

“That means lots of big logs. She don’t talk very 
plain. ” 

Pause. Bobby broke it hastily, for pauses were dan- 
gerous. 

“Did you see Aunty May? Was she all right?” 

Taylor laughed heartily and said that Aunty May 
appeared in good health and squatted on the brink. This 
change, forecasting a visit, made Bobby grin. 

“Aunty May says you need a — a — a — now, you 
know what Grandpa Humpy Bryant is?” 

“An editor?” 

“Nope. What he is for Bessy an’ me.” 

“He’s your guardian, isn’t — ” 


102 


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Taylor had interrupted himself but Bobby took no 
notice of his queer smile. 

“That’s what!” he cried. “Garden! Aunty May says 
you need one.” 

“Oh, so Aunty May thinks I need a guardian?” 

“Uh-huh. She says so.” 

“What do you think, Bobby?” 

Thus confronted with a question, the nature of which 
was beyond him, the boy was embarrassed. 

“I don’t fink,” he said and laughed. Then, losing his 
self-consciousness: “I’m like what Aunty May says Aunt 
Helen is : I don’t say somepin unless I fink somepin. An’ 
when she finks she says. That’s what Aunty May says. 
She only finks about somepin ’portant, Aunty May says. ” 

“And then, likely, I’m not very important, Bobby?” 

Again the child was beyond his depth and twisted his 
fingers. 

“Milt, he finks about you. He says to Aunt Helen 
you’re a damn dude — ” 

“Oh-h-h-h!” broke in Bessy, looking up at her brother, 
who flushed quickly. He crossed his heart solemnly, 
bending over her, grasping and shaking one of her arms. 
“Honest, Bessy, brother won’t say it again. Honest, cross 
my heart!” 

Taylor sat down on the bank, dangling his legs in the 
yellow sand. 

“So Milt says I’m a dude, does he?” 

Bobby nodded eagerly. Here was something he could 
follow; and this was becoming a deliciously long interrup- 
tion to the morning’s captivity. 

“He says that to Aunt Helen two-free days ago. He 
says you a — a — glancing cautiously at -Bessy — 


TIMBER 


103 


“a dude, an’ you don’t know what’s goin’ on wif your logs 
an’ you let a woman make money for you — That’s what 
Milt says.” 

“ Waf-wog ! waf-wog ! ” shrilled Bessie as a raft rounded 
the far bend. 

The children discarded Taylor, who had served his 
purpose with them for that day. He rose and went on, 
and they did not even turn to wave farewell. 

“ So I need a guardian — and I’m a damned dude — 
and I don’t know what is going on with my logs — and 
I’m letting a woman make money for me — ” 

He looked up through the pines and laughed ruefully. 

“I’ll be damned if I don’t have to plead guilty on two 
counts!” he said. “And — I’m not sure of the others.” 

Later he added: 

“And she always says what she thinks, and she doesn’t 
say anything about me. Therefore,” making the mathe- 
matical symbol of deduction in the air with a forefinger, 
“she doesn’t think about me at all.” 

It was that evening. Helen Foraker was at her desk 
and looked up with surprise as Taylor entered, for it was 
the first time he had been in her house since their business 
agreement. 

“Did you ever stop to think,” he began without 
preface, “that I don’t know much about what’s going 
on?” 

“I have it right here; the daily reports from the mill,” 
she said. 

“Not that,” smiling. “Those are your figures and 
I’d like to be able to know whether they’re right or not. 
Not because I doubt you, but because this is my job. 


104 


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I’m so ignorant that I don’t know anything about my 
own business!” 

She sat back in her chair. 

“I’ve been wondering if you’d wake up,” she said 
quietly. 

“Wondering! I didn’t suppose you took time to think 
about me.” 

She traced a line on the blotter before her with a dry 
pen. 

“I’ve had lots of time to think about you, John Taylor. 
A lot of time to wonder about you — and not enough 
time to make up my mind. I’ve never known many 
kinds of people; I’ve never known any one like you. 
I thought I sized you up the first time I saw you and I 
haven’t had much evidence to change my opinion. Women 
are supposed to have a certain keen intuition; perhaps 
we have; perhaps that has kept me wondering if you 
wouldn’t wake up. 

“Sit down.” 

He took a chair and she folded her arms, looking 
squarely at him. 

“Most people I have known don’t wonder about 
themselves and so they don’t understand themselves. 
That morning when we went to look at your logs you 
told me more about yourself than any — stranger ever has. 
What you said backed up my first impression, but because 
you said it made me suspect that something had given 
you a jolt. Ever since, I’ve been wondering if you’d 
be content to hang around the edges and let circum- 
stances make a boomerang of your father’s trick. ” 

She stopped, and Taylor smiled gravely. 

“Circumstances?” he asked. “You mean you’ve 


TIMBER 


105 


wondered if Fd be content to ride into my fathers good 
opinion on your shoulders !” 

She protested, but he rose abruptly from his chair. 

“Yes, it is you!” he cried suddenly excited. “What 
prospect I have of making a little success here is because 
that drunken boy gave me the wrong turn at Seven Mile 
and sent me here to spend the first night under your roof! 
And it’s you who have made me want to wake up. You 
took me with you to Thad Parker’s that night and I 
looked death in the face and caught a glimpse of life,” 
voice low and growing tense. “The next day you talked 
to me about waste and duty and Americanism in the 
terms of saw-logs and made it more convincing than 
any flag-waving I’ve ever listened to. I’ve watched you 
dominate men who won’t even accept me as a companion. 
I’ve watched you do things that to you are everyday 
accomplishments which are away beyond me — 

“Just being here has gotten under my skin! I didn’t 
realize it until today, but I’ve been uncomfortable and 
out of place and I haven’t known why. Now I do know. 
I’m thrown against a girl who is doing things for herself 
and for me. You’re making money for me, you’re winning 
my father’s favor for me, and I don’t like it!” 

He paused, breathing rapidly, and saw a look in the girl’s 
eyes that had never been there before when she looked 
at him, a vague shadow of admiration, and his heart 
leaped. 

“My mind should be good for a little something — 
Lord knows it’s had preparation and rest enough! I have 
a stout back and strong hands, ” spreading his big, white 
palms. “I want to do things for myself, I want to make 
my own money, to win my father’s good opinion, but I 


106 


TIMBER 


don’t know how to use the tools I have to work with.” 

He stopped abruptly and let his hands fall limply to his 
sides. Then he asked very simply: 

“Will you teach me?” 

In such a manner, the John Taylor who had come to 
the Blueberry to humor his father, that he might win 
wealth without soiling his great hands and who had first 
learned that there is some money from which fair-minded 
men recoil, reached the understanding that the reward is 
only one factor in achievement; in such a manner the 
John Taylor, who had been self-assured and self-satisfied 
and superficial, humbled himself, yet in that deference 
was nothing servile, but rather it had the nobility of 
simplicity and frankness; in such a manner, the man who 
had set out to find material things which would make 
one woman happy, came to another woman to find that 
peace which can come only with respect of self. 

Helen’s hands dropped to her chair arms and a happy 
flush spread over her cheeks, brightening her large eyes. 

“I will teach you all I can, John Taylor!” she said. 

Like an ambitious boy on his first job he sat that 
night while she sketched for him the rudiments of what 
he must learn before he could know what was being 
done for him. There was talk of Schribner rule and 
Doyle rule; allowance for defect, mill over-run; of costs 
and markets; of lumber grades and transportation, of 
felling and bucking and swamping; of circular and band- 
saws and kerf, of those fundamentals which he had 
hoped to skip in any business; talk of the grubbing he 
had loathed, and this night he did not shy from it, but 
questioned and listened and remembered. 

It was late when he rose. Helen followed him to the 


TIMBER 


107 


door and stood on the threshold looking out into the 
spring night. Frogs sang and the jovial chorus of crickets 
played above the murmurings of the river and the light 
breeze whispering in the pines. A screech owl uttered 
its tremulous call not far off and a whip-poor-will cried in 
the swamp. Taylor looked up at the girl. Her arm resting 
against the casing was very delicate in line but, silhouetted 
against the light, it seemed then like a part of some com- 
petent, dexterous machine; her face was mostly in 
shadow, but where the lamp glow fell on one cheek was 
an impression of softness, of gentleness, strong in its call 
to his senses. She was talking, but he was unconscious of 
her words; just heedful of the musical timbre of her voice. 

His breath caught and a strange creep went over his 
skin. For the first time she was for him a woman, a 
female; she had been an antagonist, an example, and 
now she was a girl, wholly different from any he had 
ever known, capable, far-sighted, keen of mind — and 
most lovely! He walked slowly toward the men’s shanty. 
Pauguk muttered savagely from her kennel as she caught 
his scent. Manifestations of the appeal which had 
emanated from Helen went as quickly as they had come, 
but they left him unsteadied; that moment had taken 
something away — he did not know what. 

He entered the bunk building where a light still burned. 
Goddard was mending a horse collar and looked up and his 
gray eyes lighted unpleasantly, but he did not speak. 
Taylor brought out pen and paper and sat at the table 
beneath the hanging oil lamp to write to Marcia Murray. 
For a long interval he was there; a dozen times he started 
forward and touched the page with his pen, but no mark 
was made. 


108 


TIMBER 


He did not want to write to Marcia Murray! He could 
not share with her this new enthusiasm for the job that 
he was to do with his own mind, his own back, his own 
hands! For this night she had no part in his life; for 
the first time in months he went through those last 
moments before turning in without remembering the 
sound of her words, the feel of her breath on his cheek, 
the touch of her cool fingers, the steady look in her clear 
eyes. Something had come into his heart which left no 
place for little Marcia. Marcia, the girl for whom he had 
braved his father’s vitriolic scorn, for whom he had come 
on this distasteful errand! 

The others had gone to their blankets; he rose, blew 
out the lamp and went to the door. A light was 
extinguished in Helen Foraker’s room. He saw an indis- 
tinct figure appear at the window and draw back the 
curtains and linger a moment and disappear — and 
again that delicious creep went over his body. 

From an indefinite distance, a slow, accelerating throb 
beat upon the air, stout and measured and progressing to 
its gentle rumble: the drumming of a cock partridge. 
Again it came — and again, as the bird, fevered with the 
great impulse in him, made the darkness pulse with 
his love making. Very quietly, as though awed by some 
soul-moulding experience, Taylor turned back to his 
bunk; the stimulus did not leave him; he tossed rest- 
lessly, eyes open, sleeping in brief snatches until dawn; 
he rose in the new day, to a new manner of living, of 
thinking, to work with Helen Foraker’s men and his logs, 
to talk markets with Humphrey Bryant, to sit evenings 
with the girl and talk timber and labor and board-feet 
and now and then be unable to hear even his own words 


TIMBER 


109 


because of the blood that the beauty of her face sent 
crowding into his ears. 

And so it was that he could write to his father that 
evening and tell him briefly that he had turned the stone 
to bread, and that his letters to Marcia Murray from 
thenceforth were not impelled by the urge which made 
the grouse beat his wings through the night, but were 
concerned with men and the deeds of commerce! 


CHAPTER XI 


Living as he did within the boundaries of Foraker’s 
Folly, John Taylor’s perspective was too close to yield a 
comprehensive picture of the whole. He had heard the 
forest spoken of derisively in Pancake, had heard men 
of the crew who worked in it and about the mill talk 
disparagingly of the property. But these comments had 
been standardized, the voicing of ideas of long standing, 
and had contained no detail. It was a foregone conclusion 
in the community that the project was the venture of a 
visionary and destined to fail. Most men found satis- 
faction in this belief. For long ago they, or older men 
they respected, had forecasted such a calamity. 

Taylor knew that some of the pine was cut each winter 
but that the trees taken out were not harvested for their 
own value but for the good that their removal would 
do those which were left; cripples, the unthrifty or the 
light gluttons only, were taken. Banks of these still 
flanked the mill which, before it commenced to saw the 
hardwood, was busied making these logs into thin box 
lumber and lath. Pulp-wood bolts had been shipped, 
he knew, and cars of small slabs and edging for fuel. 
Of what was cut, there was no waste. 

He knew of the nursery behind the big house where 
seeds were taken from cones and planted and the seedlings 
removed to long furrows where they progressed a year 
before being transplanted to those places where trees 
were not thick enough on the ground. Black Joe had 
no 


TIMBER 


111 


charge of the nursery and John had watched him at his 
work evenings and in those days when he was not needed 
elsewhere, had heard the old fellow muttering to the baby 
pines as he fussed over them with pride and tenderness. 

As the days grew fair and less rain fell he learned of 
the fear of fire. Beside Helena house Watch Pine reared 
itself, a great old tree, five feet through at the butt, 
rising straight and true for seventy feet before it flung its 
tattered banners to the air, a dignified veteran, standing 
above and guarding over that younger generation of its 
kind. Beneath the branches a crow’s nest had been built, 
and up the trunk was a stout ladder. On dry days some 
one was on watch there through the hours of daylight, 
scanning the forest and adjacent country with a glass 
for the smoke which would herald danger. 

But these were high points of information, unrelated, 
largely meaningless. 

It was a few days after his first cars of lumber had 
rolled out of the siding at Seven Mile that John came 
upon Sim Burns in the woods. The new supervisor was 
walking along a fire line, note book in hand, pacing 
carefully and counting trees, and did not see Taylor 
until they were close together. 

“ Hello, Mr. Taylor,” he said in his harsh voice, and 
sniffed. “How are th’ logs turnin’ out?” 

“Well enough,” John said. 

“Makin’ up th’ tax rolls, \ Burns volunteered. “Just 
lookin’ over this piece. 

“My goodness, but this property has been let off easy! 
Taxes on this’ll come in handy for roads an’ a new court 
house. ” 


112 


TIMBER 


“ I suppose taxes on this stuff do run high. ” 

“High! My goodness, she ain’t paid anything like she 
should have paid. You see, our county’s been run by 
old men. They never come in here to make their valua- 
tion. They told Foraker when he started he couldn’t 
grow timber as a crop; they’ve stuck to that idea. No 
progress, Mr. Taylor, no progress. This piece has 
always been taxed just like waste land. Assessed for four 
dollars an acre last year an’ look at it,” with a wave of 
his long, dirty hand. “ I’ll bet this piece right here’ll go 
twenty thousand to the acre right today!” 

“No!” 

“Sure! Ask anybody. An’ four dollars an acre! My 
goodness, it’s worth twenty-five dollars a thousand 
stumpage to any man. You ought to be interested, 
Mr. Taylor, now that you are one of our tax payers.” 

Indeed John was interested, but not because he owned 
forty acres of cut-over land in Blueberry County. He 
left Burns abruptly and went on, staring incredulously 
into the pine. Twenty thousand to the acre, and twenty- 
five dollars a thousand stumpage! 

There were ten thousand acres of pine here, he knew. 
Ten thousand times — 

He gave a whistle of amazement. The figures mounted 
dizzily. He stopped dead still in his tracks. What a 
property! 

And Helen was in a corner. He recalled the threat 
of taxation that Burns had made that first night, remem- 
bered Milt Goddard’s prediction of failure the next 
morning; remembered, also, the girl’s words, as she told 
her foreman that the pinch was coming, that the hardest 
time was at hand for Foraker’s Folly. 


TIMBER 


113 


Why not? he asked himself. She had helped him — 
this was a property to stir the most sluggish of imagina- 
tions. His imagination, his ambition was mounting. 
His paltry few logs would be sawed within three weeks — 
and then, what? 

He thought back to Old Luke, of how he revered the 
Michigan forests which he had subdued; surely he had 
made his father see that he was not afraid to work, not 
above grubbing; as surely, he felt, his father would now 
stand ready to back him — would be as willing to help 
him as he had been ready to impose upon his helplessness 
with a cruel practical joke. 

He walked on slowly, thinking, multiplying and losing 
his breath again before the ascending totals — “It will 
help her, when she needs help,” he told himself. “I don’t 
know what she needs, just — but — And if I could help 
her there’d be no obligation; and with no obligation I 
wouldn’t feel small — and then, perhaps — ” 

He stopped his thinking aloud as a flush came into 
his cheeks. In his eyes was a light of ambition which had 
nothing to do with trees and logs and dollars and once 
more that creep went over his body as it had when he 
first heard the partridge drumming for his mate — 

That evening John wrote a second letter to his father, 
longer, containing references to detail that he knew were 
intelligent references. The last paragraph read: 

“By the way, how much backing would you give 
me if I could come to you with a chance to get behind 
several thousand acres of Michigan white pine that will 
go, say, twenty thousand to the acre?” 

He sent that letter to Pancake by Goddard who took 
Jt with a surly nod; then John lighted his pipe and walked 


114 


TIMBER 


the river’s bank to dream and see rising before him a 
future of incredible glory — 

Little did he reckon the fires of avarice that would be 
lighted by what he had written, the thwarted impulses 
. which would be touched to life again ! Little did he dream 
of the misery that would follow in its wake, of the heart- 
sickness, the desperation, the regret. He could not see 
himself friendless, caught in a net of chicanery and ruthless 
plotting, with the joy of this night wiped out by the 
unhappiness that was to come! 


CHAPTER XII 


It was Sunday, on a clear, still, June morning. The 
men’s shanty was deserted, the mill silent, the teams at 
White’s camp stamping lazily in the stable. 

The world was a glory of vivid life. All about growth 
had replaced the dormant grayness which had prevailed 
when John Taylor arrived in the country. Out on the 
plains June grass blades of heavy green had hidden the 
tufts of last season’s dead stalks; brakes thrust their 
tender, curled fronds through the moss, and sweet-fern 
and sedge, those useless growths of the barrens, were, 
for the fortnight, things of beauty. Aspens and birch 
were in tremulous leaf, oak and maple had burst from 
their maroon buds and flaunted polished foliage to the 
sun. Within the forest the pines were stirring, terminal 
buds had opened and new, light needles were stretching 
for air and light. A company of birds made the somber 
shadows joyous and the Blueberry, wandering through 
the forest, sped crystal clear over golden sand or dark 
depths, reflecting the graceful ranks of spruce and balsam 
which edged it, taking on a border of luscious green where 
reeds shot through the surface. 

Over on the Au Sable, forty miles away, Marcia Murray 
and a dozen or more of Taylor’s Detroit friends were 
gathered at Dick Mason’s Windigo Lodge for one of the 
protracted house parties which had given the place a 
name. John had half promised Marcia that he would be 

115 


TIMBER 


[116 

there for the first Sunday, but somehow his interest in 
her was steadily waning. He was unconscious of change 
until some necessity for decision brought it home to him, 
as on that first night when he had no interest in a letter 
to her, as on other nights which followed when he could 
write only of himself and his job, and on those rare occasions 
when he could not even bring out his writing materials. 
He had believed that he was as eager to see her as he 
ever had been, but while he planned the trip across 
country he had half consciously sought an excuse which 
would keep him in the forest, and when a man who 
wanted his hemlock bark telephoned that he would come 
to the mill at Seven Mile soon, John interpreted that 
“soon” to suit his own strongest desires. He would wait 
over Sunday for the buyer, and all the time he secretly 
hoped the man would not show up, that he would have 
the day to himself — and that he might see something 
of Helen Foraker when her eyes were not on the men who 
worked for her and her mind not on the forest or his logs — 

In such a subtle manner the change crept through him. 
He told himself that he was as fond of Marcia as ever, 
told himself that, but a voice deep in his heart soberly, 
steadily denied — and when on this Sabbath morning of 
gold and blue and green he thought of the Marcia he was 
not to see that day, slender, small, cool Marcia Murray, 
she seemed to him peculiary unsatisfactory and inconse- 
quential. 

This was the first time he had not reacted to her without 
at least a superficial thrill and the realization was some- 
thing of a shock. He had come to the Blueberry to find 
easy money; he had chosen to discard the easy way and 
help produce his own wealth. He had gone that far from 


TIMBER 


117 


the reasonable creature he had been and he had gone as 
far, perhaps farther, in his very impulses! 

On the river bank near the house Helen sat with Bobby 
and Bessy Kildare. Pauguk, freed from her kennel, was 
chained to a stump, nose between her paws, orange eyes 
on the face of her mistress as Helen talked to the children. 

John approached slowly. The wolf dog turned and 
muttered under her breath, throwing a venomous glance 
at him, but Helen was occupied with Bobby and did not 
notice. 

“Look!” she cried suddenly, indicating a flitting bird. 
“What is it?” 

The boy looked sharply. 

“Fly-catcher,” he said. “Olive-sided fly-catcher!” 
very positive in tone, but his eyes searched hers with 
query. 

“Are you sure? Listen!” 

The bird had lighted in a tree and his thin, plaintive 
see-a-wee floated out over the river. 

Bobby laughed. “Nope! Wood peewee,” he said and 
showed confusion for his cocksureness of the moment 
before. 

“And what does the olive fly-catcher say?” 

“This, ” puckering his small lips and whistling a hip-pee - 
wee. “Like the pipin’ plover,” he added and laughed in 
delight at her smiling nod of favor. 

“There’s another bird! See him, Bobby?” 

“He’s easy! He’s a flicker. An’ there’s a whiskey jack! 
See him lookin’ for scraps?” 

He pointed excitedly to the jay near the kitchen door. 

“I seen a pine finch today, too. I knowed him because 
he had yellow only on his wings an’ tail.” 


118 


TIMBER 


“You what? And you knowed!” 

“I saw him, and I knew him,” Bobby answered slowly, 
much abashed. 

There was perspiration on his lip and the hair about 
his temples was damp; the vigorous color of his cheeks 
was stained by the flush which followed her correction, 
and he swallowed with his small soft throat in such a way 
that she leaned forward and dragged him close to her, 
stroking his head, laughing to cover the tenderness in 
her eyes. 

Aunty May appeared in the doorway and called the 
children. Bessy started at once, waddling on her shapeless 
little legs, but the boy lingered and said: 

“I try to learn the things you teach me, Aunt Helen. 
If I learn as much as you do, will you marry me when I 
grow up?” 

“Oh, Bobby, if you're as nice a man as you are a little 
boy, if you try to learn always, if you are as kind then 
as you are now, you'd make any girl happy. ” 

“But you!” slapping her knee insistently and looking 
into her face with a frown which told that he would not 
be put off. “Not any girl! You!” 

“I'll be an old woman, then. But if I should ever have 
a little girl I don't know any boy I'd like to have her 
love except you.” 

Bobby eyed her with sober skepticism a moment and 
started away complaining: 

“But you won’t ever 'promise /” 

Taylor had approached, overheard and watched, 
struck by the quality that was in the girl’s face and voice 
and manner as she talked with the child; a tenderness 
was there, a strength of maternal feeling that he had 


TIMBER 


119 


never seen reflected in the face of any girl before; perhaps 
it had been in others and escaped his notice, but, as he 
stood there watching Bobby go and listening to Helen’s 
casual comment on the glory of the day, he was thinking 
this: That the face of Marcia Murray would never 
yield itself to a look like that. 

He sat down beside her and drew lightly on his pipe. 
Against the far bank a trout was feeding, breaking the 
velvet surface of the pool by his frisky rises. 

“So I’m not the only one who learns things from you,” 
he said watching for the fish. She laughed disparagingly 
and said something about having little to teach. “Oh, no! 
Don’t say that,” he interrupted. “You have everything 
to teach children and — men. Do all boys who learn 
things from you want to marry you — when they’ve 
learned enough?” 

She mistook his gravity for a form of banter and 
laughed in protest. 

“Don’t laugh,” he said, and then leaning forward 
impulsively: “Maybe I’m not so different from other 
boys who learn things from you — and want to learn 
more so they — ” 

A flush rushed into her cheeks, the first he had seen 
there, the first time he had seen her unpoised; it startled 
him, and her brown eyes, very wide, fast on his, startled 
him also and for a moment they sat there, staring at one 
another while words surged upward to the man’s lips — 

And then a house wren, perched in a pine, tail at 
its pert angle, began his breathless spring song; the notes 
poured from his throat, fast and faster, liquid and mellow 
and infinitely lovely, and he twitched his tail and darted 
his small head and moved his feet on the branch as though 


120 


TIMBER 


the thing he had to say could not be stayed, as though 
he must cram those precious seconds with his love- 
making — 

Helen looked away and Taylor put the pipe stem 
between his teeth, relaxing, confused by what he had said, 
confused as well by the love song of the bird who had put 
into music the words that frothed to his lips and which 
he did not have the courage to speak — nor the right to 
speak, he suddenly remembered, and stirred uncomfort- 
ably. 

Embarrassment held them mute until Pauguk, who 
had watched John ceaselessly, moved against her chain 
and muttered a threat. 

“The men tell me you raised her from a pup,” he said, 
because he felt that he must say something and this was 
all he could think to say. 

Helen stretched her hand toward the dog. 

“She must have been a month old when I took her. 
A collie of ours went wild and disappeared and was gone 
a year; men kept telling my father that they had seen her 
with the last wolf that was left in this country. Father 
didn’t believe it until we found her in one of Black Joe’s 
traps. The puppy was by her; they’d been traveling 
evidently. 

“Joe killed the dog — she was very dangerous then — 
and brought the pup in to show us. They were all for kill- 
ing her, but somehow the little thing, backed in a corner, 
ready to fight with its milk teeth, seemed so pathetic and 
helpless and courageous that I couldn’t let them — Too, 
I thought it would be quite a triumph to make her my 
friend. It was; and a very hard job.” 

“You like to do the difficult things.” 


TIMBER 


121 


“Perhaps. That is vanity. Nothing that is easy seems 
worth while.” 

v. He watched the trout rising and smoked thoughtfully. 
1 “Is that why you buried yourself here in this forest? 
Because it is hard?” 

“I haven’t buried myself. I belong to it. I’m a part 
of it.” 

“And you’ve never wanted anything else?” 

“I’ve never had the time.” 

“It satisfied all your impulses?” 

. “No. Not all. What aren’t satisfied will have to wait — 
a while.” 

Pause. Helen’s mind was not wholly on what she had 
f been saying; the flush still lingered in her cheeks and 
she did not look at Taylor. The pause grew to a moment 
of silence and then, as though to overcome the confusion 
that he had put upon her, or as if fearful that he would 
commence again where the wren had ended, she began: 

“ My father used to say that want was entirely a matter 
of environment. This has been my environment, so I’ve 
never wanted anything very strongly that couldn’t be 
had here. I was born here. I grew up along with the 
trees, though most of them had a big start on me. I never 
knew my mother. I never knew many people except my 
father, and those few men who came here because they 
were interested in — my environment. I think my father 
would rather I’d been a boy. He never said that; he was 
very kind. But he trained me as he would have trained a 
boy. 

“I ramble,” she said laughing and more at ease. 

“No — please tell me about him. I’ve been here 
weeks and I know nothing about this forest he started. 


122 


TIMBER 


I think your father must have been a remarkable man.” 

“He was — in many ways. When I knew him, though, 
his life revolved around one thing: this forest. Reforest- 
ation was a religion with him, land economics his theology. 
He infected everybody who came near him with that 
religion — that is, all who were intelligent enough to 
understand. I was down with the disease before I could 
wholly comprehend. I played with baby trees instead 
of dolls; I planted tiny forests of my own instead of 
keeping playhouse; I learned to fight fire before I learned 
to sew. I put in the years learning log scales that most 
girls spend learning scales on a piano. When I could read 
I read books on silviculture instead of stories; I knew 
more about chemistry that I did about clothes; more 
about soil than I did about boys. 

“You see, we were a sort of joke in this co mm unity 
and had to be quite self-sufficient. After I was more than 
a little girl we stayed here always because we were too 
poor to get out. The first years took all my father’s 
money; then came debt, and he was very conscientious. 
We never went anywhere to meet people; they came 
here: teachers of forestry, foresters from Europe. 

“And then when my father died I didn’t have time to 
feel the shock or to be lonely because responsibility all 
came on me, so the other things I might want to do have 
had to wait.” 

“A big burden!” 

She shook her head. “Not a burden, unless the urge 
to paint a great picture or write a great book is a burden. 
It’s something bigger than you are; one is helpless before 
an ideal. ” 

“But now that you’ve put it over — ” 


TIMBER 


123 


“Put it over? Oh, no!” shaking her head slowly. “No, 
not yet.” 

“You have grown a forest.” 

“That’s only a part. It is all Foraker’s Folly for most 
people and the end is to make all people understand 
that — Foolish Foraker was not foolish.” 

“I see,” he said vaguely. 

“Are you sure that you do?” Pause. “I’m not. 
You’re too young, ” flushing slightly again, “in experience, 
I mean. You’re only weeks old in this; some men are 
life old in the same experience and they won’t see. 

“It’s not this tract, not these few thousand acres my 
father wanted men to see. It’s something else : he wanted 
to show what all this land might be that they call waste 
land, that they look on as a burden and an eye-sore. 
Those plains down the river are useless now; they are a 
burden and horrible to look at. It’s not the fault of the 
land; it’s the fault of men.” 

She sat up and her manner became a bit more vehement. 

“Did you see Louvain?” 

“No. But I got to Rheims.” 

“Do you see any parallel? No — of course you don’t. 
You don’t see the heel of the Hun on these pine barrens. 
You don’t visualize the devastator, the leveler of all that 
was beautiful and useful. Oh, we were Prussians, we 
Americans! We were ruthless, heedless. All we saw was 
forests and a market for their products, so we butchered. 
We only saw the hour, only thought about personal gain. 
It wasn’t the conscious Prussian, the deliberate 
destroyer; it was the Hun in our hearts, the spirit of the 
age: thoughtless youth, my father used to say. Our pine 
went out to build the country where cheap lumber for 


124 


TIMBER 


cities was needed. They stripped the forests so a country 
might grow, just as the Prussian needed to grow and 
would grow quickly at the cost of his own future, even. ” 

Taylor watched her closely and she saw the bewilder- 
ment in his face. 

“Your father cut millions of feet of this pine; he 
bought it and paid for it and his energy made it into 
homes. But it was his fortune that was made, too, and it 
was his men who left these barrens behind; and their 
children are living in a country spotted with great acres 
of waste land, and his grandchildren will face a 
timber famine. Do you know that in Michigan there 
are millions of acres which are considered useless for all 
time? And not only in Michigan, but in all the Lake 
States; in New England, in the South, in the West. 

“There’s over a quarter billion acres of land that once 
grew forest which now lie idle between the two oceans. 
A lot of it can never be farmed or grazed, but in that lies 
our national future. Logs, lumber, forest products are 
the foundation of national life! Ties for railroads, and 
charcoal to make the iron that goes into equipment; 
timbers for the mines that yield coal for the locomotives 
and metals for every use. The shoes you wear were 
probably tanned with oak bark. Your necktie is silk, 
probably artificial silk, made from spruce pulp. The cloth 
in your coat was woven in wooden looms with a dog- wood 
shuttle; the pencil in your pocket is made from Tennessee 
juniper, likely, and the note book behind it came from 
northern spruce and balsam.” 

She watched a swamp sparrow perch for a moment on 
the telephone wire near her house. 

“Take the telephone: Again, your mine timbers to 


TIMBER 125 

v 

get the copper, the converter poles in the smelter where 
the ore was reduced, the poles under the wires, the paper 
around the wires in the underground cables of your own 
city, the wooden desk for the instrument, the turpentine 
in its varnish and even the rubber mouthpiece you talk 
into and the rubber receiver came from the trees! 

“ Civilization can’t make a move without using forest 
products and our forests are going and we are doing 
nothing with our billions of acres of idle land that once 
grew forests. This land that is waste is waste in the 
worst sense. It won’t grow food crops, won’t fatten cattle 
or sheep, but it will grow timber!” She waved her hand 
downstream toward the miles of desolation that stretched 
between them and Pancake. 

“And while we are turning our backs on it, our supply 
of wood is shutting down. National forests? They’re 
remote; much of their area is inaccessible. They give 
us only three per cent of the timber we use now. The 
men that own virgin forest are butchering and have a 
leg to stand on because there are other men like Sim 
Burns using taxation as a goad. We’ve torn down and 
we have not rebuilt. We can build, and that was my 
father’s idea; to show that we can create as fast as we 
destroy. 

“Less than fifty years ago this land was stripped of 
its pine; today it is maturing another crop. The same 
could have been done with any other piece that grew 
good trees: Just keep the fire out and nature would 
have done much in time. Fire, fire, fire, without end! 
Every summer it eats across the plains country; every 
summer it does its damage on cutover lands in all the 
timber States. It not only destroys trees, but it takes. 


126 


TIMBER 


the seed bearers and the seeds that lie ready to sprout 
and the life of the soil itself. 

“To exist as a nation, we must have forests; to have 
forests all we need to do for a beginning is to give this 
worthless land a chance. We can speed up its work by 
helping — by keeping out fire, by planting trees by good 
forest practice. Can’t you see all these Michigan plains 
growing pine again? And in Wisconsin and Minnesota, 
Pennsylvania and New England, the South, and every- 
where where hills and valleys have become blackened 
eyesores? Don’t you see what it would mean to people, 
not only in cheaper homes and steel and railroads, but 
something else? Fish and game and a chance to play as 
men were intended to play! It is so simple to do; to 
show people that it is simple is such a task!” 

She stopped with a smile and Taylor rapped the ash 
from his pipe. 

“That’s a head-full,” he said soberly. 

Helen drew a deep breath. 

“I’m glad I don’t bore you,” she said. “There are few 
people who will listen, few who realize their dependence 
on forests.” 

“ But they must listen to you, now. You’ve succeeded. ” 

“I have only commenced. You can grow the trees 
and that will satisfy the people who love trees. Sentiment 
doesn’t get far; it’s necessary to show profit. Is reforest- 
ation an economic possibility? men will ask. That is 
the question to answer.” 

“But you have! Look at what you have produced!” 

Again she shook her head. 

“There are trees, yes, but think what it has cost to 
grow them.” 


TIMBER 


127 


“Cost? Of course it cost, but you began with such a 
little capital. Your land must have been so cheap. ” 

She shrugged. 

“My father was impractical. His first costs were away 
higher than necessary. Compounding interest will double 
the investment in your land every ten years, remember; 
some years it has cost nearly fifty cents an acre to keep 
the fires out, and there are ten thousand acres of pine 
here. We have almost a hundred miles of fire lines that 
cost a lot of money, and those are only the big items. 
There’s replanting and a hundred other things. 

“For twenty years there was no income except from 
the scattering Norway pine which wasn’t good enough 
to take when the first loggers went through here. After 
twenty years the young trees were beginning to crowd 
and slowing down growth, but thinning cost money 
and there was no return from it then. Meanwhile debts 
piled up and interest went marching on. 

“The value of stumpage went marching on, too, which 
saved us. It is high now; lumber is higher than it will 
be six months from now, but it won’t drop back to where 
it was before the war to stay. Never again, because the 
forests aren’t here. The cut of Southern pine has passed 
its peak — did ten years ago; it will dwindle and then 
all that America has left will be the forests of the Pacific 
Northwest. 

“Enough there to last forever? No. They said that 
of New England; they said that of Pennsylvania and 
New York; they said it of the Lake States. Your father 
must have said it: that there was enough pine in Michigan 
to last forever. All those men believed that except my 
father and when they’d cut thirty years there was no 


128 


TIMBER 


Lake State pine; so they went south, where they thought 
there was enough to last forever — and those forests will 
go out with our generation. 

“In the woods when a saw gang has cut into a tree 
until it commences to sag and snap they stand back and 
cry ‘Timber!’ It is the warning cry of the woods; it 
means that trees are coming down, that men within range 
should stand clear. My father used to say that the cry 
of ‘Timber!’ was ringing in the country’s ears, that the 
loggers had given the warning, that the last of our trees 
were commencing to fall — but we haven’t heard ! Our 
ears are shut to the cry, our backs are turned and unless 
we look sharp we’ll be caught! ” 

She paused a moment and lifted a hand and let it fall. 

“We’re caught now,” she said. “It’s too late to grow 
enough in time to avoid the hurt. There will be a shortage; 
there is now over great regions, and it will be worse before 
you and I have lived a normal lifetime, in spite of all 
that men can do. A few years more of doing nothing 
and the pinch will hurt, hurt, John Taylor! Roosevelt said 
it again and again, ten years ago; other men have said 
it; government departments have said it officially. Think 
of Michigan, a great timber-growing state with millions of 
acres that will never grow anything else, paying millions 
of dollars every year in freight bills on lumber! And your 
father probably said that there was enough-pine here to last 
the country forever ! We can make good a grain shortage in 
less than a year; we can overcome a meat shortage in three 
or four seasons, but you can’t hurry timber. It needs 
fifty to a hundred years to reproduce itself and nothing 
that men know about can hurry it — and men are doing 
nothing adequate now, this year, this spring, this morning !” 


TIMBER 


129 


Taylor had a flashing memory of old Luke, staring at 
a white moon through the plume of a yellow pine, a 
counterfeit pine, longing for Michigan forests again, 
hopeless and cynical. And he looked at this girl, sitting 
up cross-legged now, gazing at the river, cheeks glowing, 
eyes far away, and he remembered that Humphrey 
Bryant had said of her — that in her heart was something 
of Joan of Arc, of Catharine of Russia, and something of 
the Blessed Damosel — 

She looked back at him and went on. 

“That has helped my forest — the available supply 
pinching down. We’ve gotten along somehow with box 
lumber and lath and pulp wood from our thinnings, but 
the pinch is coming and we are not ready to cut now. 
We could cut, we could make money, but it would prove 
only half the argument. My father’s whole object was 
to get his capital turning its full interest return each 
year and then to take that interest while maintaining 
the capital — not eating it up, not making the forest 
a temporary property. It’s in the waiting period now, 
just as a fruit grower is with a young orchard. Our 
thinnings and their income are like the first few apples 
or cherries, just enough to stall off some of the interest 
accumulations. The fruit grower realizes on the increasing 
bearing area of the trees ; we realize on the quality growth 
of these pines and the climbing lumber values. 

“Foraker’s Folly is at the turning point. The value of 
the standing timber is commencing to overtake the interest 
which has been compounding away all these years, but 
neither the timber nor ;the investment is quite ripe. 
To cut now would be to over-cut the rate of growth, 
but in a few years, a very few years, we can harvest a 


130 


TIMBER 


part of what is here and that part will about equal the 
growth on the rest of the tract; it will take care of all 
the investment, cover all these years of compounding 
interest, and show that the forest is a sound, going, money- 
making venture, that it can go on forever, that there 
will always be something to cut, that there will always 
be white pine here, that there never will be useless red-oak 
brush and gnarled poplar, blackened snags, lifeless soil, 
and Thad Parkers and Jim Harrises! 

“That is what my father started to prove and they 
called him Foolish Foraker — and I loved my father, I 
believe in him — and I want men to believe in him as 
I do!” 

She stopped, breathing rapidly. Taylor was thrilled, 
stirred by her enthusiasm, by the glow of a crusader which 
was in her eyes and for a moment he looked into her face 
with a feeling of reverence — and then he saw her as a 
girl again, laughed at, whispered about by foul-mouthed 
yokels, fighting stupidity and small-minded men! 

“A terrible load for you!” he muttered. “Why — 
Why doesn’t the State do this? Isn’t it the State’s job?” 

She smiled tolerantly. 

“My father used to say that in the history of civiliza- 
tion every just function of the State has followed individual 
enterprise. The State is thick-headed. It is the individual 
who lightens burdens, the individual who blazes the 
way that States may follow — and as for Lansing!” 
she laughed sadly. “Waste land has meant only a page 
of tabulated figures to most men there! 

“My father used to say that we had an over-supply of 
office holders and a shortage of leaders. Michigan has 
done a lot, comparatively; we have state forests that are 


TIMBER' 


131 


almost models in some ways, we handle our fires better 
than lots of other states, but, much as we’ve done, we 
haven’t scratched the possibilities or made more than a 
feeble step in meeting a necessary problem. 

‘-'Of course, it’s a job for the state. Everything, loca- 
tion, soil, climate, circumstances, favored this forest or 
it never would have had a chance of proving out. It 
was the one place in ten thousand where one person had 
even a chance of success. Individuals can’t do the job 
for the country. It will take the state — the big state — 
the federal government, not twenty or thirty little govern- 
ments fussing inadequately with a problem that involves 
all of us. 

‘‘And it needs men who can think and will think; who 
are men of action and not afraid of action. Not a crowd 
whose virtues are mostly negative!” 

‘‘And how much longer,” he asked, “will you have to 
carry on?” 

She shook her head rather wearily. “That depends 
on markets, on demand. Three, four — maybe a half 
dozen years.” 

“But what about — Sim Burns?” 

A shadow fell across her features. 

“I don’t know. Humphrey Bryant is the rock on 
which I’ve stood in trouble, He has worked for years to 
change the timber tax laws so that ventures like this will 
not be driven to the wall. He has worked — he is still 
working. Without him there would be no chance — 

“Oh, for the present, anyhow, I’m at their mercy!” 
She said that rather desperately and rose abruptly as 
though the fact excited her. “But we’ll try to keep on, 
we’ll try to keep going — 99 


132 


TIMBER 


She took Pauguk back to her kennel and Taylor started 
away through the forest. Until dark he walked and came 
out at the mill, ate with Raymer, the mill foreman, 
smoked and started back through the night and the 
forest. 

The gash of the fire line let down the light from an 
avenue of stars to give the road beneath his feet a grayness 
in the flat black which was all about. No individual 
trees were discernible; here and there against the sky 
could be seen the motionless reach of tufted limb but 
on either side the pine was an unbroken wall, silent, 
motionless — And yet as he went through it that forest 
seemed to have the powers of speech and motion, for 
Helen Foraker had breathed life into it that day for him. 
It was no more fleshless, no more without consciousness 
for him than would have been a company of silent, 
unmoving men ranked under the stars. It was dynamic, 
powerful, capable of great manifestations, waiting — 
waiting — waiting for the word to stir — 

It was an eerie feeling which enveloped him there, 
alone in the gloom and the silence. He felt like an intruder, 
like an unwelcome stranger — and small, mean, low- 
spirited. He, the seeker after possessions, after honest 
possessions, won by his own skill and effort, felt mean, 
because that day he had realized that he had not even 
sensed the example that had been all about him for weeks, 
had dragged it down to the level of his feeble appreciation, 
thought and spoken of it in his own inadequate terms. 

Foraker’s Folly tonight represented something that 
had never entered his ken: an idea beyond material gain, 
no matter how heroically won. Not once in her talk had 
Helen spoken of what it meant to her in wealth, in profit. 


TIMBER 


133 


It was an adventure in practical creation for the sake of 
building, designed for the benefit of no individual, 
developed for those who were not yet born and for their 
children of all time. He had been aware of men and 
| women who had struggled unselfishly that others might 
find living easier, but those people had always worked 
among men, had stood in range of the public eye, had 
been of cities, of great, spectacular movements. But 
here, lost in this country which had been laid waste, a 
girl, backed only by an aged politician and a group of 
laborers, carried on her fight, ridiculed, unattended, that 
homes might be built and cities might grow, that a 
forest might yield and renew itself for all time! 

Taylor felt as small as he had felt before Helen when 
he first entered her house, a searcher for an easy road to 
fortune. He had come far; he had done the thing which 
astonished even his exacting father, but tonight that was 
as nothing. Sight had been given him and his emulation 
was roused, not by possible personal triumph but by 
the thought that perhaps it lay in his power to help 
carry on this forest, the forest which had become emble- 
matic of all that is most worthy. It was fundamental, it 
stood next to the supply of food, it was a bulwark against 
privation and the insurance of national life itself, 
i He stopped at a juncture of fire lines and looked at the 
stars. The dipper hung above him and the northern 
lights, shooting their green spires far toward the zenith, 
moved behind the treetops, setting the staunch banners 
of pine in bold silhouette. 

' “I wanted to help because it meant profit for me,” 
he said in a thin voice. “ Profit for me — and to open 
the way for more profit — But, no longer — not now!” 


134 


TIMBER 


He watched the spires of restless light creep up and 
upward, sweeping in from right and left, seeming to come 
from east and west as well as from beneath the north 
star until they converged above his head, forming a cone, 
tremulous and fading swiftly. 

He clasped one hand with the other and worked at its 
fingers slowly. 

; “And Marcia?” He shook his head and one knee gave 
suddenly. “I can’t keep my promise — unless you find 
happiness — with me — ” He started on slowly but his 
pace grew rapid and within a half mile of the men’s 
shanty he burst out: 

“God, Marcia — I don’t want to make you happy — 
any more!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


Windigo Lodge is a huge, rambling building of logs, 
high on a bluff overlooking the south branch of the 
Au Sable. Great chimneys of boulders flank the structure, 
a wide verandah runs about three sides, screened in and 
furnished in wicker, with those refinements which are not 
native to the plains country: luxurious swinging seats, 
lounges, winged rockers, tea wagons and flower baskets. 

Inside is a great main hall. A fireplace fills one end, 
bright rugs are on the floor, a piano with its floor lamp is 
in one corner; there are shelves of books and wide window- 
seats; electric lights are about the walls and glow from 
beneath lampshades on tables, and from the center of 
the beamed ceiling hangs the massive root of a cedar tree, 
polished expertly and each of the two-score root prongs 
holds its small frosted light bulb. 

A girl in riding breeches played the piano and three 
couples danced with abandon to the primitive measure. 
At the far end of the room a table of bridge occupied 
four others. Mrs. Mason, Dick’s mother, read in a 
corner, unmindful of sounds or movement. Only one 
of the gay party was alone : Marcia Murray sat in a rocker 
on the verandah, tapping the concrete floor nervously 
with a small pump, staring with sullen eyes toward the 
river, where a firefly winked through the spruces. 

It had been a difficult day for her, the culmination of 
weeks which had been beset with increasing perplexities. 
Soon after her return to Detroit from Florida she had 
dropped an occasional word to be carried by curious 
minds to meet other words that John Taylor had dropped, 
135 


136 


TIMBER 


and it was not long before her best girl friends came to 
her with those hopeful kisses and smiles which are designed 
to provoke confidence. 

But Marcia had made no actual response to their 
advances, because those perplexing factors had commenced 
to present themselves to her in John’s letters before the 
gossips had gotten very far into her affairs, but she let it 
be known that there might be something to say — before 
very long. She knew that they were watching her at this 
house party as they had never had the opportunity of 
watching her before; they listened to her every word, 
remembered her every action, for the snaring of the heir 
to the Taylor millions was a matter of no small importance. 
To heighten this curiosity John had not appeared, though 
he was only forty miles away. At heart Marcia was 
worried and petulant and suspicious from the first day 
of her arrival, but she sparred alertly before the others, 
letting them know little, for her pride was as great — 
as some of her other qualities. 

But her hope that he would spend this first Sunday 
with her had been too high for hiding. She had let them 
become aware that she expected him and when he did not 
come she knew that they detected her dismay, try as 
she did to cover it. After dinner she went to her room, 
begging a headache, and was aware that lifted eyebrows 
and a smirk or so and perhaps a cautious I-thought-as- 
much followed her. She opened a bag, took out John’s 
letters and read them slowly, carefully, weighing words, 
reading again and again his references to the Foraker 
pine and to the girl who owned it. He was very enthu- 
siastic over the forest — but of Helen he said little — 
much too little. 


TIMBER 

A 


137 


Marcia's cheeks became flushed and that cool calcula- 
tion which was characteristic of her eyes gave way to 
temper. She was not nice to behold as she sat on the floor, 
reading those letters — after that she lay down, stretching 
her slim legs and throwing her arms wide, staring at 
the ceiling, thinking, thinking. She slept a few moments 
and moaned once or twice lightly. When she awakened, 
she opened her door and listened; it was quiet below*, 
most of the others were gone. She went down and sat 
at a desk and wrote a lengthy letter, a bright, light 
charming letter, completed with much pains and delibera- 
tion and some rewriting. 

The letter was for Philip Rowe. 

She kept her front of gaiety very well thereafter until 
darkness when the others found agreeable diversion, but 
she did not care for cards or dancing and reading was out 
of the question, so she slipped outside and sat alone, 
watching the night, brooding, planning, with temper in 
her eyes again. 

It was there Fan Huston found her. Fan was thirty, 
married at twenty-two, childless, given to tightly drawn 
hair nets, much rice powder, stiff gowns and personal 
difficulties. She went in for trouble as some women go 
in for surgery and some men for the collecting of stamps 
or obsolete firearms. She came to the door, saw Marcia, 
looked cautiously about to see that her husband was 
occupied with a girl in a yellow sweater and came swiftly 
across the verandah, drawing a chair to Marcia's. 

The girl looked up with a casual word, but the turn 
of her head exposed her worried face to the revealing 
shaft of light. Fan said nothing for a moment, but took 
Marcia's hand in hers and squeezed it significantly. The 


138 


TIMBER 


music stopped, voices arose; then the piano thumped 
again and Fan Huston sighed as in relief and leaned 
forward. 

“I understand, Marcia dear,” she said lowly. The 
girl bit her lip and turned her face away and made as if 
to withdraw her hand, but Fan leaned nearer. “ Now don’t 
think I’m butting in! I understand, and there isn’t a bit of 
use thinking that you can keep me from helping you! 
It’s a shame, and I’m here to say so! If John Taylor had 
come over today I was prepared to take the first chance 
and give him a generous piece of my mind — and make 
him like it.” 

Her brittle voice vibrated indignation and that quality 
met a need in Marcia’s heart. Taylor’s growing indiffer- 
ence had given her the feel of a jilted woman; she had 
been helplessly furious at the serene interest these other 
women took in her misfortune. But she had not yet 
reached the point of storming against the shabby treat- 
ment John had given her, and that is the specific which 
brings relief to the feminine heart when everything else 
has failed. 

“You know that you can trust "me," dear,” Fan was 
saying. “You’ve been very sweet through it all, but you 
couldn’t keep it from Fanny! I know; ^ I've been through 
it and I’ve helped others through it and I can’t help 
telling you that you’re going too far, f taking too much 
from John! It’s a downright shame that he should treat a 
girl like you this way, but you’re a little goose to put up 
with it! You have the right of every woman to protect 
her pride, and if you don’t exercise that right, he may — 
walk on you, dear!” 

Marcia’s hand, which had lain rather tentatively in 


TIMBER 


139 


Fan’s, moved and its fingers twined with the older woman’s. 
Fan lowered her voice and went on. Later they walked 
together, arm in arm, up and down the terrace before 
the house and Marcia cried a bit and steadied and grew 
indignant. 

Before they went in they stood looking at the play of 
northern lights. 

“You would do that?” Marcia asked in the pause. 

“Positively I would! I wouldn’t let a day go by. If 
there should be another girl — ” 

“Oh, there isn’t! I’m sure he isn’t interested in Miss 
Foraker!” There were limits to which Marcia could go 
even in that sympathetic company and her pride prompted 
that lie. “It’s — it’s just that he’s so wrapped up in his 
business. ” 

“ Well, in either case, ” Fan was not quite convinced, it 
seemed, “the best way to bring him to time is to go there, 
have it out.” 

Marcia watched the bank of light on the horizon throw 
out a fresh fringe of pale green. 

“Miss Foraker has asked me to come,” she lied again. 
“I might — Yes, I think you’re right. I could drive 
over — tomorrow — ” 

Fan patted her hands. 

“That’s the girl! Don’t be too abrupt with him, but 
just have everything clearly understood. Of course, I 
know your feeling for John, but I can’t help remarking, 
as Dr. Mason remarked to Dick yesterday when the big 
trout went through his tackle, ‘ there are several big ones 
left in the stream yet’ — 

“And if I were you, Marcia dear, I’d wear that blue 
sport suit — ” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Milt Goddard returned from Pancake that night, 
bringing letters for Taylor. 

Sitting on the deacon’s bench in the men’s shanty John 
opened them. One was from his father. The address was 
typewritten, but within was a scant page of Luke’s scrawl. 
It had been years since the old man had touched pen to 
paper for his son and that fact was thrilling ! 

“You are crazy to talk of that much pine. It can’t be 
done. Don’t believe everything they tell you up there 
just because you’re a gullible cub. I’m sending Rowe to 
Pancake Monday night just to see how big a fool you are. 
Your mother is well. Yours, etc. L. Taylor.” 

John breathed deeply and smiled and scratched his 
head and re-read the crabbed sentences. Beneath their 
crustiness was genuine interest, a willingness, after Luke’s 
manner, to take him seriously at last, an indication that 
the favors he had asked two months before and which had 
drawn only a cruel trick now were his. 

Yesterday he would have tried to calculate the profit 
that might accrue to him from Luke Taylor’s aid; tonight 
he saw only in that note a promise that the burden on 
Helen Foraker’s shoulders would be lightened. She had 
helped him, she had shaped him — she had taught him; 
and now, perhaps, he could repay some of that obligation. 

He could not know what waited just over the horizon 
of time! 

The other letter was in a smudged, scrawled envelope, 

140 


TIMBER 


141 


addressed in pencil and posted from Pancake. He opened 
it absently. The message had been written on rough tablet 
paper. It read: 

“John Taylor Sir Well are you going to settel or will i 
have to seu you My damages is not Grate but unless i am 
paid 1000$ I will law you out of the county Yrs respy. 
Chas Stump esq.” 

He frowned over this. Goddard came in and he showed 
it to him. Milt laughed in the superior manner he had 
adopted toward Taylor, but condescended to say: 

“Miss Foraker has a stack of ’em a foot high. Every- 
body who comes here from outside or anybody who has 
any property here gets those from Charley. He’ll be 
around to see you.” 

Taylor had not been at the mill an hour the next morn- 
ing when Charley Stump appeared, pushing his safety, 
that guilty look in his watery eyes. 

“Hello, Mr. Taylor,” he said, halting at a distance. 

“Hello, Charley.” 

“Fine weather, ain’t it?” 

“Right.” 

John was copying from a tally sheet and paid no more 
attention to the old man until he had finished. Then 
he turned and looked squarely at him. Charley’s hand 
caressed the bent handle-bar and his old eyes shifted 
uneasily. 

“Your logs is turnin’ out good, Mr. Taylor?” 

“Fairly well.” 

“That’s fine. You like it here, Mr. Taylor?” 

“You bet, Charley!” 

“Well — that’s good,” falteringly, as though he had 
started to say something else. 


142 


TIMBER 


“Was there something you wanted to say to me, 
Charley?” 

“Oh, no; I just dropped by to see your logs. I’d been 
over sooner only I ain’t got my tires yet, ” pointing at 
the rope-bound rims. 

John walked away smiling. Charley was so meek and 
casual after his preemptory threat. 

It was mid-afternoon when Helen, driving her Ford 
home from Pancake, saw a pea-green roadster attempt 
to swing into the road from one of the lesser trails which 
came in from the north. The car was driven by a girl 
and both car and driver were out of place there. The motor 
bellowed, the sand flew from the rear wheels, spinning 
tires ate through the sod hub-deep into the earth and 
stopped. Helen swung her car out of the road, ran around 
a stump, over a half-rotted log and stopped in the road 
again beyond the big car. 

Marcia Murray was out, looking petulantly at the 
plight of her car when Helen came up. 

“They call these roads!” she exclaimed. “All day long 
I’ve been wandering over these plains and trying to get 
right directions. How you people manage to get about 
is more than I understand.” 

Helen stooped to see better the position of the rear wheels. 

“We drive light cars,” she said simply. “And we get 
used to these roads. ” She looked at Marcia, immaculate, 
blonde, flushed, with fury in her eyes. “Where we~e you 
going?” 

“To Pancake. How far is it from here?” 

“About eleven miles.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“No.” 


TIMBER 1 i 143 

Marcia sniffed. “You’re the first person I’ve met today 
who wasn’t sure, so perhaps you are right. ” 

Her haughty manner did not impress this girl in the 
khaki skirt and laced boots, Marcia perceived. She 
experienced misgiving as though this other disapproved 
of her and as though that disapproval mattered. She was 
not accustomed to being made uncomfortable by the 
opinions of strangers. The flush in her face mounted as 
she watched Helen, who had dropped to her knees to 
look under the stalled car. 

“You’re in deep, but I think I can get you out.” 

“You can get help?” 

“I could, but it isn’t necessary. Let me take a pull on 
your car.” 

“With that?” looking disdainfully at '’the rattle-trap 
roadster. 

“Yes.” 

Helen went to her and came back with a shovel. She 
did not look at Marcia and said nothing and this further 
nettled the girl. She stood back, however, smoothing 
the skirt over her hips, and watched Helen shovel sand 
and turf from about the rear wheels. She did the work 
quickly and without any evident effort or awkwardness. 

“There” — drawing off her gloves and shaking sand 
from them. “Now we’ll try.” 

A rope was forthcoming from the box on her car. She 
backed in close and made it fast. 

“Start your motor,” she said. “I think the two of us 
can manage it.” 

The engine sputtered, the gear of the Ford whined, 
the slack came out of the rope, the big car bellowed, 
both sets of driving wheels tore at the earth and the heavy 


144 


TIMBER 


car crawled forward, following the smaller between stumps 
and around through the brakes until it was again in the 
road. 

“ You’re not headed for Pancake now,” Helen said 
when the motors stopped. “It’s the other way, but you 
can turn around if you’re careful not to cut through the 
sod.” 

“You’ll let me pay for this, of course.” 

Marcia produced her purse, but Helen would not accept 
money, though Marcia was insistent. 

“Well, it was very kind of you, anyhow. You’ll take 
my thanks, won’t you? 

“Perhaps the person I am looking for is not just in 
Pancake; that is his address, but there’s a mill somewhere 
near here?” 

“Yes, on a little further.” 

“I’m looking for a Mr. Taylor. Do you know of him?” 

Helen eyed Marcia with a new interest. “I’m working 
for Mr. Taylor and I am going to talk with him as soon 
as I get home. He will be at my house.” 

“Oh” — rather slowly. “How much further is that?”, 

“Not far. If you want to you can follow me — ” 

“That’s very kind of you,” icily. 

Marcia was appraising this woman, now, as her identity 
seeped into understanding, and the personal inadequacy 
she had felt gave way to its sister emotion: resentment. 
It was with this girl John was working, it was to her he . 
had referred with such significant repression in his letters. 
Marcia’s flush came back as she followed the rattling 
Ford over the swells and into Foraker’s Folly. 

At the door of her own house Helen stopped and got 
down. 


TIMBER 


145 


“I have some things to look after, ” she said. “Mr. 
Taylor is in there, or will be shortly. Won’t you go in?” 

Marcia’s thanks was curt. She ran up the steps, 
breath quickening, and paused with her hand on the knob 
and watched Helen join Black Joe and move toward the 
nursery. Then she opened the door and stood looking in. 

John was at Helen’s desk, loose papers about him, 
lumber quotations clipped from a Detroit newspaper 
propped against a book, figuring on a pad of blank paper. 
He had heard the approach of Helen’s noisy car; he 
had not heard the soft breathing of the big roadster, 
so when the door opened he believed it was Helen returning 
and did not look up at once, but only grunted an abstracted 
greeting. When no step sounded he raised his eyes. 

For a moment he sat in motionless amazement, and 
then his pencil dropped to the blotter. 

“ Marcia!” he cried, and there was in the word a ring 
of gladness which was eloquent, as he beheld the trim girl, 
cool and clean and representative of all that had been 
desirable — a few short weeks before. “ Marcia!” Amaze- 
ment was there as he rose slowly, bewildered at seeing 
her there. He stopped about the corner of the desk, 
moved toward her and stopped. “ Marcia?” A faltering 
question, reflecting all the doubt, a crystallizing of all 
the change that had come into his heart, a troubled echo 
of the truth that had come to him last night as he stood 
alone under the pines. 

For a moment they were so, a dozen feet apart, the 
man’s face a study in conflicts, the girl’s intent, alert as it 
pried and probed with the incisiveness of her kind. 

“John,” she said lowly. “John?” 

He moved forward and she put out both hands to him, 


-46 


TIMBER 


her eyes questioning, before the calculation which flickered 
in their depths; he took her hands and halted. Just that: 
took her hands in his and stopped. 

They stood, and he felt her tremble. 

“John — aren’t you going to — kiss me?” Her voice 
was exquisite pathos mingled with fright and misgiving, 
fright and misgiving which were well balanced; almost 
too well balanced. 

He released one of her hands and his fell to his side 
limply. 

“No, Marcia,” shaking his head slowly. “I’m not — 
today. ” 

She drew back then, a hand at her throat. 

“John? John! You aren’t glad to see me?” in a breath- 
less whisper; and then, voice mounting, “John! What is it?” 

He turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets, 
staring gloomily through a window. 

“A mistake,” he muttered. 

“Mistake?” 

“Yes, a ghastly, miserable mistake!” he cried, facing 
her again, throwing his hands wide. “I’m at fault, 
Marcia. The blame in it rests on me. I’ve been selfish, 
indecisive. I’ve changed and said nothing to you about 
change. If you hadn’t come here today I might have 
come to you with this — or I might have let matters 
drift — I don’t know. ” 

He swallowed drily and looked down at her. She 
seemed smaller than ever, seemed more lovely, more 
fragile than she ever had before; her blue eyes were wide 
with fright and her lips parted in bewilderment, and that 
bewilderment was genuine. His brows drew together 
with the pain of hurting her, but the change of weeks had 


TIMBER 


147 


come to this rushing conclusion and there could be no 
evasion, no more delay. 

“ I was honest enough with you in the beginning, ” he 
went on. “I’ll ask that for myself: credit for being 
sincere. I was off my head about you, I was ready to 
promise anything to you, ready to do anything for you — 
and I was wrong.” 

His voice dropped and he let his hand which had been 
lifted drop, too. 

“Wrong?” she asked. “Just where — ? Just how? — ” 
Her voice was a bit steadier, that amazement was going 
from her face; a glint of craft was there. 

“In everything — from you to saw-logs!” 

Her eyes narrowed, just perceptibly. 

“And what have I done?” she asked, “What — to 
make this difference?” She was steeled, as though her 
question invited accusation. 

He shook his head. “ That’s the devil of it : you’ve done 
nothing.” She stirred, as in relief. “It’s all on me, 
Marcia. ” He did not see the leap of triumph in her eyes 
or the settling of her mouth. “I — made love to you and 
promised many things — which I can’t fulfill. ” 

The girl stepped forward quickly. 

“John, there’s some terrible misunderstanding here,” 
she said hurriedly, resting a hand on his arm. “You 
frighten me, but I know it’s a misunderstanding!” She 
pressed a hand against her lips as though to crowd back 
a sob but her cool, clear eyes showed no such distress. 

“You’re miserable; you’re making a mountain of — 
nothing. There has been some good reason for your — 
for what might seem to other people like your neglect of 
me, I know.” 


148 


TIMBER 


She waited a moment and when he did not look at her, 
shook his arm gently. 

“ Everything has been going so splendidly for you, dear! 
Your father can’t keep his pride to himself. He tells 
everybody about you. He’s ready to help you — the 
world is before you, John — 

“ Promises?” She laughed nervously. “The only 
promise you made me was happiness and that happiness 
is yours to give me — for the asking. ” 

She paused, smiled wistfully, and Taylor looked down 
at her again. 

“No, Marcia, I can’t give you the happiness you want, ” 
he said evenly. A flicker of hostility showed in her eyes. 
“There’s such a difference in the happiness that you 
wanted and the happiness — you see, I’m not the John 
Taylor I was when I left you,” very earnestly. “I’ve 
changed in the things I want and respect and because of 
that I’ve changed in almost every thought and impulse. I 
couldn’t help this change if I wanted to; I’m not trying 
to crawl out of a mighty uncomfortable position; I’m 
telling you facts. 

“The John Taylor who came up here started to make 
a fortune for you, to give you happiness in the terms of 
possessions that you could see and tou,ch. That isn’t 
possible any more. I can’t do that — aven after I’ve 
promised to do it — I didn’t come to Windigo yesterday 
because I knew that some such thing as this would have 
to be said, though I didn’t admit it even to myself until 
last night — and I didn’t want to hurt you — I’ve tried 
to hide from the fact that the next time we saw each other 
— I’d have to ask you to — cancel our contract — ” 

[ iU “1 don’t understand,” she said coolly and drew back. 


TIMBER 


149 


“I scarcely understand myself, Marcia. I don’t want 
to make money. I would like to have money, but I’ve 
lost all interest in starting out to make a fortune as a first 
objective — ” 

‘No one wants money; they want what it will buy.” 

“Not even that, ” shaking his head. “I — I’d like to do 
a little something for a lot of people. I’d like to be of a 
little service, I think. I’d like to put my mind and body 
and what little money I may be able to get from my 
father behind an idea which is going to count for many 
people — not just for me. I’d like to put in the best 
years of my life — just doing that. ” 

“Go on; you’re becoming interesting,” with a tinge 
of irony. 

“You see, I have my chance to do that in this forest, 
this pine. I’ve written you about it. You won’t under- 
stand if I try to tell you all, but I’ll say just' this: it’s an 
adventure in putting back into the hands of men the 
forests that men took away. I told you about Thad 
Parker’s wife — you’ve seen this country. My father 
helped make the Jim Harrises and the Thad Parkers 
possible; he helped lay waste to this country and did 
nothing to put back what he had taken. 

“I used to believe that my father’s fortune was some- 
thing for me to use. I never considered the fact that the 
devastation which made that fortune worked a hardship 
on any one else. I’ve come to understand that now, and 
I’ve come to think that maybe the job before me is to 
undo some of the damage my father did; to put back 
some of the things he took away. He wouldn’t under- 
stand that, of course. It would make him furious. No 
matter; he won’t have to know, but I’m going to ask him 


150 


TIMBER 


to help me do just that job. I won’t put it in such terms, 
but I won’t deceive him. I can’t promise him any great 
profit; I can’t even promise him his money back; I don’t 
know, yet, how much I will need, but I want him to take 
a chance with me and I think he will. He is sending Phil 
Rowe to Pancake to look it up and he’ll be here tonight — ” 

“ And what has this to do with me?” There was defiance 
in the movement of Marcia’s head and John looked at her 
rather startled by her evident wrath. 

“Only this — that I can’t offer you anything of what 
you want.” 

“And what else?” she waited. “That I’m — no longer 
satisfactory? ” 

“Please don’t put it that way,” he begged. His voice 
trembled and his face was drawn with suffering, because 
he hurt her. “We wouldn’t have anything in common, 
Marcia; I couldn’t give you what you wanted — and 
with you unhappy, where would I find happiness? It 
would be wretched for both of us. Don’t you see that?” 

“Yes, I see,” she said and laughed again. She drew off 
her gloves nervously, with anger showing in the sharp 
little jerks of her hands. “You’ve changed, yes! And 
because you’ve changed, you assume the right to make 
me ridiculous in the eyes of my friends, to humiliate me, 
to delude and deceive me and make me suffer.” 

“Oh, Marcia — ” 

“You’re not dumb, John Taylor! This isn’t any sudden 
change in you; there’s nothing spontaneous about it; 
it’s deliberate and planned and I am — the deluded 
virgin!” 

He tried to interrupt, but she stormed on, voice unsteady. 
“That is what it amounts to! You made love to me 


TIMBER ' 


151 


furiously; you were extravagant in your promises. I 
believed and promised to be your wife — you have it 
in your power to make good these promises, but you have 
forgotten that I and others may think that you owe 
something to me regardless of — this change in you! 
Wait a minute! I'm not through!” Taylor dropped his 
hands limply and listened. “All my closest friends, all 
your best friends, those who know the most about us, 
those who had our confidence, knew that I had given my 
word to marry you. They talk about you and gush over 
the way you have developed, when all they want to know 
is why you've changed in your attitude toward me — 
the cats! They held up all their plans yesterday to see if 
you would come, and when you didn’t they tried to say 
that they were sorry, when I knew that they felt that it 
served me right for trusting you at all. 

“There’s another thing: How it affects me, here,” a 
hand on her breast. “ I put my trust in you ; you made a 
solemn compact and now, on a whim, you ditch me — 
because you don’t want to make money! Because you 
want to become a sort of evangelist, you begin by trampling 
a girl’s heart and making her a laughing stock. Have 
you no pride, John Taylor? Have you no shame? ’ v 

Her questions stung like the bite of a leash. He could 
not know what went on in her cool little mind, could not 
know the meanness of her own heart at that moment. 
For him, who believed he had known women, Marcia 
had been worthy of his trust; for him she had been sweet 
and gentle, honest and without guile. He could not know 
of the nights she had been with Phil Rowe, playing him, 
holding him at once aloof and her prisoner; he could not 
guess the tensity and intelligence with which she had 


152 


TIMBER 


followed the varying favor of old Luke. He could not 
know the secret plans she had made in heartlessness and 
mercenary calculation, the deceptions she had practiced, 
could not know the scorn she had for the first manhood 
and idealism that ventured into his letters. But this he 
could see and know — that instead of hurting this girl he 
had stirred a terrible temper; that instead of crying out 
to him in suffering she talked to him of her position, of 
what he could do for her if he would! Pride? Shame? 
Had he neither? 

“I have pride, Marcia; I have shame. I have too much 
pride to lie to myself, to go through with this bargain 
which was to have meant much happiness. Now — I 
could never bring you happiness. It is better to see 
failure ahead than to walk blindly into it. By foresight — 
there is perhaps chance of another start. Shame? Yes, 
I have shame! The only greater shame that could come to 
me would come if I dodged this thing today — and went 
through with something infamous.” He moved forward, 
not just steadily, and towered over her, looking into her 
face with a scrutiny which would not be evaded. One of 
his hands worked slowly as though he clutched for some 
saving condition. For a breathless moment they stood 
silent, giving one another stare for stare. 

• “I have changed and you have changed, Marcia. I — 
I never thought you had claws! I was prepared to break 
your heart today — and pay the penalty to my own 
conscience, all because of my mistake. I paid that penalty 
here in this room only a moment ago. I suffered as I 
never thought a man could suffer, because I was acting 
the cad, because I thought I was — hurting you. There’s 
one thing I want to ask you, and I want you to be as 


TIMBER 


153 


honest with me as I have been with you. If I had come to 
Windigo yesterday, if I had told you that I could never 
bring fortune, if I had asked you to keep your promise 
under those circumstances, would you have taken me?” 

She did not answer. She tried to tear her eyes away 
from his, tried to move, but she was helpless in the grip 
of his earnestness. A door opened and Helen Foraker 
stepped into the room, saw them and halted in surprise. 

“ Please excuse me,” she begged. “I heard no one and 
thought you had gone out.” 

She started to withdraw, but Marcia checked her. 

“ Don’t go,” she said and laughed. She began drawing 
on a glove, covering the white, well shaped, well tended 
hands. “There isn’t place for two of us here, it seems. 
I’m going — to make room for you, Miss Foraker. ” 

She drew back and her eyes ran the length of Taylor’s 
body, resting on his face with a blaze of fury. Her lip 
curled over her even teeth as she said: “This, I suppose, 
may be the ending of the first lesson!” 

She turned toward the door. 

“Wait!” he said sharply, and caught her wrist, swinging 
her about to face him. 

“You haven’t answered me — under those conditions, 
what would you have said?” 

As she shook off his clasp she smiled again and her chin 
went up. “What would I have said?” She laughed, with 
the laugh of a victor. “Why, you poor fool, I’d have 
laughed in your face!” 

The screen door banged behind her. As she jumped to 
the seat of the roadster he stood looking after her, arms 
limp at his side, breath quick. The motor started, the 
car backed and swung and with a bellow as of con- 


154 


TIMBER 


temptuous rage it struck into the road which led out of 
the forest. 

John turned slowly toward the doorway in which Helen 
had appeared. She was gone, the door closed. He stared 
blankly at it. 

“Fooled!” he muttered. “So — 1 was the dupe! 
It wasn’t the man — but what he could give!” He put 
a hand over his eyes and laughed weakly. “And I humbled 
myself — I crawled on my belly — but, by God!” hand 
dropping from his eyes, “I went through with it! I didn’t 
hedge!” 

He stared again at the closed door through which 
Helen had come to see and hear and through which she had 
gone again. He stepped forward, a half dozen quick 
strides. 

“Helen!” he cried — “Helen!” — and stopped and 
waited. No reply, and he breathed again. “No — not 
now,” he said. “Lord, no! Not now — not the chance 
of another mistake!” 


CHAPTER XV 


The anger which had been in Marcia’s face died long 
before she crossed Seven Mile Creek. She became a 
trifle pale, a little drawn of feature, as though she had 
been through an ordeal, as if she had bid high on a long 
chance and lost. But her eyes, though fast on the road, 
showed a degree of speculation that does not come often 
to the blue eyes of a golden-haired girl; they were not 
hopeless or dismayed, and when she reached the place 
where she had been stalled she did not turn into the road 
that would take her back to Windigo Lodge, but kept 
right on to Pancake, stopped her car at the Commercial 
House where she registered and was given a room, and 
from there she telephoned to Mrs. Mason, at Windigo. 

“This is Marcia,” she said gaily. “John won’t let me 
come back tonight, so I’m going to stay over — yes, 
he’s awfully busy — yes, I’m with Miss Foraker — • 
delightful — see you all tomorrow — ” 

She hung up the receiver and stepped out of the booth, 
her mouth set. 

“What time is the train from the south due? ” she asked 
Henry. 

“Nine-ten,” he replied. 

“That is the only one today?” 

“Only one since noon.” 

The early June moon hung over Pancake as the night 
train slid to a stop, glorifying the ugly little town, soften- 
ing the bad lines of its flimsy buildings, toning down the 

155 


156 


TIMBER 


colors with which they were painted, mellowing the 
nakedness of others. The night was very still and warm, 
and sweet with the purity of distances. 

The river murmured to the village as it slid by and 
people sitting on their stoops talked back and forth, their 
voices carrying well in the night air. Philip Rowe came 
across the street beside Henry who had gone to the train 
to guide stray travelers to his shelter, and Marcia, from 
the hotel verandah, watched him come, rocking gently 
in the rickety chair, her cool smile hidden by the shadows. 

She remained there while he registered and went to his 
room, waiting patiently, because the rooms were stuffy 
and she knew he would return. He came out of the door 
and stopped to light a cigar. She could see his frown in 
the glare of the match; she saw, too, the look of amazement 
when she spoke. He stared toward her incredulously and 
did . not move until the match burned out. Then she 
laughed. 

He came with quick steps and leaned over her chair. 
“ Marcia Murray!” 

“Why so dramatic?” She laughed as she let her hand 
rest in his. 

“Of all places to find you!” 

“You knew I was at Dick Mason’s.” 

“But that’s a long way from here!” 

“Love,” she said mockingly, “laughs at locksmiths 
and bad roads.” 

His hand tightened on hers till she winced. 

“Oh, not that, Phil! You’re so eager and impulsive — 
and such an optimist. I had no idea you were coming, 
though I believe John did mention it.” 

He dropped her hand and leaned against the railing. 


TIMBER 


157 


“You were over here to see him,” he said flatly. 

Her clear laugh came again. “Of course, wluTelse 1 
would I come to see? Though naturally, I’m glad that 
you are here tonight. I had planned a lonely evening. 
John doesn’t know that I got off the road and missed 
my way until late. I was with him all day and he thinks 
I’m safe at Windigo. I would only worry him if I let him 
know. ” 

Rowe pulled at his cigar. 

“He’s so busy! You’ll hardly know him, Phil; he’s quite 
changed. ” 

“I expect so,” drily. Pause. 

“Why don’t we walk?” Rowe asked. “I’ve ridden 
all—” 

“Fine! Such a night!” 

They went together, slowly, out along the board side- 
walk to where it became but two planks laid side by side 
in the sand, and finally off that into the road itself. 

“Don’t you think John is doing wonderfully,” Marcia 
asked. 

Rowe shrugged and threw away his cigar rather impet- 
uously, as though it had not pleased his taste. “He’s 
doing something, yes, but the old man can’t trust him. 
He’s a kid in business; been lucky, but he has a deal on 
and Luke won’t trust him to go it alone; that’s why I 
am here.” 

Marcia lowered her face and he would have been 
startled had he seen its intentness. “But I thought his 
father was greatly pleased with what he had done?” 

“Oh, in a way,” grudgingly. “He doesn’t trust him 
like he does me.” There was something like a childish 
boast in the last. 


158 


TIMBER 


“Then he hasn’t overcome his father’s prejudice?” 

“No!” explosively. 

“But if he should show big things?” 

“He has to do that yet!” 

“Don’t you think this new idealism he’s developing 
will appeal to his father? Or — mightn’t he like it?” 

Rowe glanced sideways at her; her face was still in 
the shadow. 

“Just what do you mean — idealism?” 

“Why his putting ideals above money. He came up 
here to make money and he has done that, has proven 
that he is capable of making it. He’s seemed to outgrow 
that ambition, though I think it’s splendid the way he 
wants to help Miss Foraker.” 

Rowe’s fingers touched his chin speculatively. 

“That’s news to me,” he said. “I came up to find out 
about this pine deal and what backing he wants. ” 

Marcia looked up in a good counterfeit of surprise. 

“Am I betraying a secret? I didn’t mean to, really!” 

“No secret. I’ll know in the morning.” 

He urged gently for more information, but Marcia 
held it back long enough to whet his curiosity. 

“Why, it’s simply a matter of ideals,” she finally said. 
“His father, you see, made his fortune by cutting pine. 
Now John has been convinced by Miss Foraker that 
timber can be grown as a crop. He wants to see some of 
that fortune made out of old pine devoted to growing 
young pine — and undo some of the damage his father 
did to this country. He thinks his father owes something 
to — to the country; only, of course, he won’t put it 
that way to Mr. Taylor. It’s a conservation hobby — 
reforestation. ” 


TIMBER 


159 


After a moment Rowe laughed: “ Growing trees to 
look at, eh?” 

“Well, for a time. He isn’t sure that it will pay — it 
isn’t profit he is after, anyhow. ” 

Rowe was silent. 

“ A big idea isn’t it?” she asked. 

“Not for profit, eh?” 

“Really Phil, I don’t know detail. It’s all very big 
and splendid. It dates away ahead for future generations. 
I tell him I don’t think his father will take to the idea 
very readily. Do you? John, though, is all enthusiasm 
for it — ” 

Another period of silence; then from Rowe: “Are you 
sure of this?” 

“Sure? Of course! He talked it all the afternoon.” 

His hand sought her arm and rested there none too 
lightly. 

“And what do you think?” he asked. “What do you 
think Luke Taylor would say to putting his money into 
something for — coming generations — paying for what 
he’s broke?” 

“It doesn’t sound much like him, does it?” 

Rowe laughed harshly. 

“I guess not! I guess not ! He’s had me jumping for 
months switching his investments so they’re as good as 
cash! A bird in hand is worth a half dozen in the bush to 
him — ” 

He stopped and swung her about so that her face was 
toward the moon. 

“Don’t you know what this means? Don’t you know 
what Luke will say?” 

“Why — what, Phil?” breathlessly. 


160 


TIMBER 


“ You’re right that John has caught the old man’s 
interest. He has made a showing that tickled the old dog, 
but I knew that he wouldn’t go far! I knew he’d make 
some fool break and have to be satisfied with being a rich 
man’s son in the flesh — and not before the courts — 
when Luke dies.” 

“Phil!” 

“Listen, Marcia! A new will is ready to be drawn. 
John is cut off with an annuity — about enough to keep 
a teamster and his wife in want. I’m to be named as 
administrator. I’m to control the Luke Taylor millions! 
It’s a big job; it’ll be a fat job!” 

He had both her arms in his hands then, gripping their 
firm flesh. She drew back, alarm in her face — all but 
the eyes, which were steady and cool and calculating. 

“I used to think he was simply shiftless. I never 
imagined he was a nut! Do you want to marry a man and 
live on ideals? Do you want to tie yourself to a worthless 
kid or an improvident dreamer? Do you want to do that? ” 

“Phil, what are you saying — ” 

“I’m saying this,” he muttered fiercely, bending close 
to her. “I’m saying that is it Phil Rowe and not John 
Taylor who will be able to give you the things you want? 
Oh, don’t deny it! I know you, Marcia, your impulses, 
your desires! I know that a man must bid high for your 
love. I know you want not comfort but luxury, not 
position but independence. 

“Until now I haven’t figured with you much. Until 
now I’ve been Luke Taylor’s bookkeeper, but I’ve been 
a good bookkeeper — I’ve gotten closer to him than his 
son ever did, than his son ever can now. I’ll have a 
chunk of the estate for my — loyalty, ” with fine irony. 


[TIMBER 161 

s' A 

“That means that it’s the bookkeeper, not the son, who 
can make you contented and happy !” 

“Phil, you’re trying to buy me!” 

“Buy you? Yes!” as he dragged her to him and slid 
one arm about her shoulders. She struggled — very 
briefly — and then stood quiet, stilling the quaking of her 
limbs, as he talked into her hair, mingling kisses with 
words. “All women who are worth while are bought! 
Do you think I’d want you if you were cheap? Do you 
think I’d want a woman who would be content to grub 
and slave? 

“Luke will explode when he hears what’s brought me 
here! Paying for what he broke! That’s good! John 
will be cut off — I’ll be as good as the old man’s heir. 
And that means — that means you — for me!” 

She struggled again when his hand pried her chin 
upward, but she did not struggle when his burning lips 
lay on her mouth — and after a moment hers responded 
to that caress. And then she was free, panting, smoothing 
her hair. 

“What are you saying? What are you doing? Why 
should I let you?” But her eyes reflected no question and 
a wicked little flare of triumph ran across her features. 

“Because I love you! Because you will love me!” he 
cried. 

“Don’t be too sure, Phil,” but her voice was without 
the power of dissuasion. “We must go back now — 
don’t Phil — you’re hurting me!” 

At the door of her room he stopped. A lonesome soiled 
incandescent burned in the red carpeted hall, but it was 
enough to show him the fire in her eyes, to reveal the 


162 


TIMBER 


tempting curve of her lips as she smiled — tempting to 
distraction. Her hand was on the knob, the door was 
opening. He lurched forward, all assurance and desire — 

She put up her hand quickly and laughed brittily. 

“Marcia!” There was determination with the pleading 
in that word. 

“No, Phil — tonight, I only — admire you — just 
that, Phil Rowe. No more — tonight — ” 

The door closed between them. 

Out in the men’s shanty in Foraker’s Folly a man lay 
flat on his back, staring up into the darkness. 

John Taylor had been wrong so many times. He had 
been wrong in everything these last weeks — from saw 
logs to Marcia Murray! He stirred restlessly. He had 
thought he understood women, as he had thought he 
understood himself; had believed that Marcia was sweet 
and kind and gentle. Today he had seen her claws, had 
felt them tearing at his pride. He had humbled himself 
before her because he had been wrong and had believed 
it the honorable way — but his mistake had been two- 
fold. He had loved her, but love had not brought her 
into his arms. The impelling influence was the hope of 
possessions, the lure of his father’s fortune, not the call 
of his own young heart. 

“Mistakes! Mistakes!” His lips formed the soundless 
. words. Well, there would be no more mistakes he promised 
‘himself, and stirred again. He was free from clouded 
j thinking, his eyes were open. He had been deceived by 
his own inconsequential self, by life, by a girl, but from 
now on — 

Of such is the resilient assurance of youth! 


TIMBER 


163 


And at a window in the big house Helen Foraker sat 
on the floor looking into the summer night, ears closed 
to the music of the river and the talk of her pine trees. 
Words echoed in those ears, the words of that other girl, 
spoken that afternoon. 

“I am going — to make way for you, Miss Foraker !” 
Bitter, stinging words, but they did not sting the memory. 
They stirred some remote thing in her heart, touched 
some hope, some impulse of which she had never until 
today been aware. 

He had come as a little boy, he had changed, had grown 
up, and now another woman had made way for her. She 
raised her hands and looked at them in the dim light as 
though they were strange objects. They were strong 
and splendidly proportioned, but they were a bit rough, 
a bit red. 

“Hers,” she whispered, “were so small — so white — ” 
She looked up quickly, lips parted, as though her words 
and what they indicated had frightened her. 


CHAPTER XVI 


For hours Philip Rowe lay wakeful in the lumpy bed in 
the Commercial House, first tossing in a fever of desire, 
later lying quietly while his mind spun. 

Marcia Murray had played her hand well, superbly 
well for a losing hand. She had made the most of what 
John Taylor had told her, of what she knew of his father’s 
character, and of how Rowe reacted to the news she let 
him worm from her. 

For years Philip Rowe had bent his sharp wits toward 
gaining a place between the Taylors, father and son. Like 
young John he had wanted fortune, but he was not 
afraid to grub. He had been faithful to Luke, more 
faithful to himself; he had studied, he had learned, he 
had watched and waited. On that morning in Detroit 
when he took notes for the framing of a new will, he 
believed he had triumphed, but the arrival of the letter 
from John telling that he had turned his father’s shabby 
trick to profit knocked the foundation from beneath his 
hopes — for a time. He did not give up, though for 
another it would have been difficult to keep hope alive 
before old Luke’s delight over the change in his boy. 

The new will was not drawn, but Rowe knew that 
behind Luke’s reaction to John’s success there w^s per- 
sistent skepticism. With the coming of John’s letters, 
asking for backing in this vaguely defined new scheme, 
that skepticism challenged paternal favor. Rowe under- 
stood, Rowe watched closer than ever. He was sent to 
164 


TIMBER 


165 


Pancake to investigate with the knife of his self-seeking 
unsheathed, ready to strike at the first weakness Taylor 
might show. 

And now it was so easy! Marcia had given him the 
best reason for hope that he had encountered in weeks. 
John Taylor, wanting to use his father’s money for the 
gain of unborn generations! He smiled as he lay there. 
He would see Luke’s face darken, could hear his stinging 
outburst. 

Again his mind went back to Marcia. All winter she 
had toyed with him clandestinely in Florida. In Detroit 
he had seen much of her and the flirtation had been 
brisk — and tonight for the first time she had surrendered 
her lips and after she had given to him the information 
which seemed to open the way to an attainment of his 
dreams. 

He sat up abruptly and stared out the window. 

Had that been conscious? Had she realized, as he 
realized, the possibilities of this change in John’s ambition? 
He drew a hand slowly through his hair and laughed 
quietly. 

“You devil!” he whispered and laughed again, as if 
he had been fooled, and admired the wit that fooled him. 

As surely as two ships in a motionless sea move toward 
one another, just that certainly will like personalities 
drift toward their kind. Rogue finds rascal; male flapper 
unerringly meets his congenial companion; intelligence 
discovers intelligence. 

Marcia Murray had gone by the time Rowe awakened 
and Jim Harris was alone in the dining room when Phil 
entered. The men spoke gravely across the soiled linen, 


166 


TIMBER 


and Jim rattled his paper and remarked casually on the 
headlines as he would to any stranger. But two hours 
later they stood in Harris’ room, looking down into the 
street where Helen stopped her noisy car to let John Taylor 
out, and Harris looked at Rowe and winked as he might 
have winked at a companion of years. 

“ Quite a gal, what?” he chuckled. “And maybe that 
explains a lot, Rowe.” 

The other’s lips twitched in a sardonic smile, and 
though he said nothing it was evident that he understood. 

Taylor did not look at the hotel register, for Henry 
Wales was at the desk, struggling over one of his pale, 
inflammable cigars, else he would have seen the fine 
signature: “M. Murray, Detroit.” That might have 
added to the trouble that lurked in his eyes, aftermath 
of yesterday’s scene; or, to have linked her name with 
Rowe’s might have been relief. No matter. John did not 
seek information from the register, but asked his question 
of Henry, who said that Mr. Rowe got in last night; 
was upstairs now. “This’s him, ” as steps sounded on the 
stairs. 

Rowe and Harris came down together and the former 
suavely greeted John, assured and superior. 

“You know Mr. Harris, of course.” 

Yes, Taylor knew Harris, and as he acknowledged the 
acquaintance he looked from one to the other, sensing 
something of their kinship, but reading no import there — 
not then. 

Harris went out. Taylor and Rowe went into the small 
and hideous parlor of the hotel. They smoked. They 
talked briskly of Luke and John’s mother, of the lumber 
market, of the season, Rowe waiting like a cat at a mouse- 


TIMBER 


167 


hole, Taylor uneasy. Face to face with his father’s 
secretary he was impressed with a lack of sympathy for 
his new enthusiasm and he dreaded getting at the matter 
which had brought Rowe north. 

Suddenly Rowe precipitated the subject: “I’ve been 
with your father over seven years, Taylor. I never saw 
him quite so worked up as he was over your last letter. ” 

“I thought it must have interested him, sending you 
up here.” John shifted uneasily in his chair. 

“Michigan pine is to him — not like red to a bull; 
like freedom to a Bolshevist, perhaps. ” 

Taylor smiled. “He’s always lived in the past, with 
the pine, Rowe. I thought of that: that it might give 
him a chance to live in the future. ” 

“Or to live in the present? That would be better. 
Your father can’t have very many years left.” Pause. 

“When your letter came in, mentioning Michigan 
white pine in a big tract, he forgot his cane. He walked 
up and down the room without it — for the first time in 
years.” 

“That’s fine!” 

“He rushed me up here, not because he wouldn’t take 
your word” — with a cautious glance at John, “but 
because he wants you to speed up the deal. He’ll go in 
with you, if the values can be established; he wants 
camps operating this fall.” 

John started. 

“Camps?” 

“Surely. He knows he hasn’t much time left. It’s 
been his dream — to finish as he began: cutting Michigan 
pine; a dream without foundation until now.” 

Taylor shook his head. 


168 


TIMBER 


"It's not a question of buying and logging,” he said. 

Rowe paused in the act of striking a match. 

“You don’t want to buy?” he asked incredulously. 

“It couldn’t be bought, in the first place; and it isn’t 
ready for harvest yet — you see, Rowe — ” 

He sat forward and for half an hour talked of Foraker’s 
Folly, of the country adjacent, of what it had been, of 
what it was now; talked of Thad Parker and his wife’s 
death. He did not mention Jim Harris; some undefined 
warning checked the bitter sentence at his teeth and he 
went on from Michigan pine plains to lumber markets 
and supply — He was careful to explain clearly, to make 
no over-statement. He went into the history of Helen’s 
forest, told what he knew of the forest practice thereof, 
of the fire prevention, of the thinnings, the income and 
the future plans. 

“ I see, ” said Rowe when he had finished, and looked 
through the window with a malignant twinkle in his black 
eyes. “It’s a case of — of taking some of the money that 
was made from Michigan pine to grow more Michigan 
pine.” 

“Exactly!” 

“And — perhaps making some of that fortune perform 
a duty which most men wouldn’t recognize: putting it 
to work to help pay for some of the ruin it made of this 
country?” 

“You get the idea, Rowe!” Taylor burst out enthu- 
siastically, and stopped shortly. He did not like the 
straightening of the other’s arm in its coat sleeve as 
Rowe raised his cigar to his lips. It smacked of a gesture 
of triumph and Rowe continued staring through the 
window. 


TIMBER f 169 

'■ j 

Before John could say more Rowe asked: “ And how 
much help will you need?” ““““ 

“I don’t know.” 

“You haven’t anything to go on, then?” as if dis- 
appointed. 

“ Not yet. You see, Miss Foraker needs help very badly, 
I think. I — I didn’t want to hold out any false hopes 
to her. I wanted to be sure before I mentioned it. ” 

“I see — ” Once more the gleam of triumph came into 
his eye. “Have you had it estimated?” 

“No. I’ve gone on the opinion of others.” 

“Your father wired Tolman, his old cruiser, to meet 
me here. He should be up from Saginaw today. It won’t 
take him long to give us something definite and depend- 
able.” 

“The value’s there, all right,” John said. “Tolman’s 
report should satisfy father. I suppose he’ll want that first.” 

He had risen. 

“Surely,” said Rowe, lightly enough. “A matter of a 
few days — and it won’t take him long to make up his 
mind when he hears the facts, ” with a light sniff. 

“You’ll stay on, then?” 

“I think not. I’ll get out as soon as Tolman gets in, 
which’ll probably be tonight.” 

They halted on the steps of the hotel. 

“I don’t suppose, then, there’s any chance of buying?” 
Rowe asked. 

“Not one in the world!” 

“But if this Miss — Miss Foraker needs help so badly, 
I should think — ” 

“You don’t know her! She’d lose everything before 
she’d listen to talk of selling!” 


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“ And you wouldn’t try to influence her?” 

John shook his head emphatically. 

“ Buying is out of the question, Phil. That’s one 
reason I want to help her — so no man can ever come in 
and take advantage of her circumstances, force a sale 
and ruin this plan.” 

“ She’s converted you to her idea all right!” 

“By Jove, Rowe, she has that! I’d as soon lose my 
right arm as see that stuff cut now. ” 

“You inspire me!” 

They parted and Rowe went inside to stand by the 
window watching John swing along the sidewalk. 

“Your right arm, eh? Well — by making that crack — 
about your right arm, you may lose your birthright.” 

He examined the time table hanging beside the desk 
and then entered the telephone booth. His call was for 
Miss Marcia Murray, at Windigo Lodge. 

That afternoon Jim Harris and Philip Rowe drove 
north from Pancake. They did not stop at the Harris 
development project, though they left the main road 
there. They went on, along a seldom used trail, coming 
eventually to the southwest corner of Foraker’s Folly. 
They left the car and crossed the fire line and within 
the shelter of the ranks of pine trees Rowe took a small 
camera from his pocket. They walked three miles or more 
through the forest, stopping now and then where the 
light and perspective were right to preserve for the dis- 
contented eyes of Luke Taylor the things which theirs 
could see. 

They were together that night at supper, together when 
the nine-ten arrived, bringing the small, silent Tolman, 


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turkey slung over his shoulder. They sat together a half 
hour later on the baggage truck on the station platform, 
waiting for the down-bound train. 

“It’s good,” said Harris, rolling his cigar with satis- 
faction, “to have somebody I can talk to without doing 
a lot of rattling around and side-stepping. I can help 
you, Rowe, and I’d sure welcome some other substantial 
interests to this country.” 

“I think they’re on their way,” said his companion. 

Harris nodded emphatically. 

“I think so, too. I hope so — And I’ll work to realize 
that hope. Anyhow, we’ve got a common interest. 
I’ve been a good servant for Pontiac Power and they’ve 
given me my chance with a big piece of this development 
proposition, but, damn it all, they expect me to do all 
their dirty work up here without any backing. I’ve 
protected their interests all right and I’ve made some 
money for myself, but I want to make a lot of money, 
Rowe — a lot of it. I need roads and schools to build 
up that project; I’m going to have ’em, too — an’ when 
she sees her tax bill — that’s going to help you! She won’t 
be able to stand the racket — she won’t be able to get 
her breath when I get through with her.” 

He laughed good naturedly. 

“And she’s alone? She hasn’t any backing?” 

“Not any that’s worth a damn except — ” He turned 
his head to look up First Street to where a light showed 
above the office of the Banner; he flicked the ash from 
his cigar and cleared his throat. “Just one old anarchist, 
Hump Bryant.” 

“The senator?” 

“Yup,” sourly. “Course he and I ain’t clashed yet, 


172 


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but it’s bound to come. He commenced stirrin , up a 
dust about timber taxes a few years ago. That was all 
right; he couldn't get anywhere and I wouldn't have 
kicked on that, anyhow. But now he's spreadin' out and 
's asking too damn many questions about farms that are 
started and abandoned on these light lands. He wants to 
start some nutty land reform movement. We’ll mix, yet. 
He’s treading mighty close to my bunions. And he's lined 
up with the gal, all right. He's her port when it blows 
uncomfortable hard." 

In the far distance the down train whistled and Rowe 
stood up, shaking his coat. 

“About this other, though? This matter of taxes? 
You think you're safe there? You've got the supervisors 
thinking your way?" 

Harris brushed ashes from his breast and laughed. 

“Thinkin’f Hell, Rowe, these yaps haven't got any- 
thing to think with. But as for havin’ them — " He thrust 
out one hand and held it close to the other's face, fist 
clenched. “Like that!" he said beneath his breath. 

In other places in Pancake that night Helen Foraker 
was in the minds of men. In the bank of Pancake, for one, 
where Ezam Grainger sat at his desk, securities spread 
before him, going through the papers, making neat notes. 
His tight little face was harried and the stiff, straight 
collar slightly wilted from the moisture of his wrinkled 
neck, and now and then he muttered to himself. 

From the stack of mortgages he took the next document. 
It was a paper covering title to three sections of Foraker's 
Folly: it was for $20,000. It was due, he saw, within 
three weeks. And when he put it down he checked it 


TIMBER 


173 


on a list before him and wrote beside it the one word: 
“ Renew." 

The door opened and Doctor Pelly came in. Ezam 
frowned over his glasses to identify the newcomer, then 
started up eagerly and opened the gate in the office railing. 

“ You’ve been to the house, doctor?” he asked 
nervously. 

The physician shoved back his derby wearily and 
took a morsel of chewing tobacco from a pocket of his 
unbuttoned vest, winking roguishly, and apparently 
unmindful of Ezam’s agitation. 

“ Better ’n Blaud’s, Ezam,” he said, taking a chair 
and stretching out his dusty shoes with a sigh. “Yeah, 
I’ve been over to see Lily.” 

Grainger fidgeted in his chair. His eyes showed, with 
their eagerness, a rare timidity. 

“You two are all het up over nothing,” Pelly said, 
and the other stiffened as though the pronouncement 
were an affront. “If I was a young doctor and not a 
friend, I’d welcome patients like your wife, Ezam. They’ve 
given many a young cub his start; nothin’ better in the 
way of practice than a nervous woman with plenty of 
money. Nothing you can do for ’em, so there’s no 
danger of their gettin’ well. Only way you can lose ’em 
is to fail to take ’em seriously. ” 

He winked again and the banker cleared his throat. 

“Why in Sam Hill don’t you an’ Lily light out of here?” 
Pelly asked bluntly. “You can do more for her than I can, 
Ezam. You and your car and a part of your income spent 
liberal like. ” 

Grainger settled back in his chair, reassured by the 
confidence in the doctor’s tone. 


174 


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“You’ve been here since the hills were hollows. You’ve 
made your pile. What’s the idea of keepin’ on?” 

“Why — why, a man must keep busy.” 

Pelly negotiated the cuspidor safely. 

“Busy, hell! You’ve been busy enough to last three 
or four lifetimes. The trouble with Lily is she ain’t been 
busy enough. If — if there’d been more children there 
wouldn’t ’ve been this trouble; if you’d call it a job and 
pulled out half a dozen years ago you wouldn’t ’ve been 
in this stew.” 

He took off his derby and mussed his thin hair. 

“You know, Ezam,” crossing his knees, “Lily wasn’t 
cut out for Pancake. It was all right for a while, but now 
it’s used up her interest and ’s after her nerve. Shucks! 
You’re going to dry up and blow away in some hot wind 
yourself if you don’t play a little! Sell your toy bank 
or give it away or somethin’! You’ve made your pile; 
you can play the rest of your life and never think twice 
about a new pair of shoes if prices never go down! Put 
Lily in your car, set fire to the house, light out for Maine 
for the summer, do New York in the fall and see the boy, 
drop over to California for the winter and maybe give 
Honolulu the once-over in the spring. Come back and look 
in on us in the summer for a few weeks; on your way again!” 

He waved his hand elaborately. “Simple as skinnin’ a 
cat!” 

“You don’t understand, doctor. It’s — ” 

“Course I understand! You’re in a rut and think th’ 
world depends on your runnin’ the bank of Pancake. 
Lily’s in a rut, too, and Pancake’s holdin’ her in it. Don’t 
try to tell me there’s anything to hold you here but a 
habit. You know, Ezam, if I was fixed like you are, 


TIMBER 


175 


now — ” He scratched his head fiercely and spit again 
and winked and ambled on, telling of how he would play, 
given the opportunity. 

The down train stopped and went on. Jim Harris 
tapped on the window and waved his hand and passed. 
Talk within lagged. 

“Tim Burdick’s wife ’s due for another kid or so 
tonight,” Pelly said rising. “Got to get along.” He 
buttoned his vest. 

“Maybe there’s something in what you say,” Ezam 
admitted. “Our own affairs always seem large — and 
Lily — is all I have, now — she and the bank — ” 

He looked through the window and saw Harris mount 
the steps of the Commercial House. 

“Widdemer, the new vice-president of Pbntiac Power, 
was in from Bay City the other day. He’d be interested 
to buy, I think.” 

Pelly looked sharply at him. 

“That so? He made an offer?” 

“Well, not exactly, he wanted me to make one.” 

“That’s reasonable. You do it, Ezam. There’s nothing 
wrong with Lily now, but women are funny machines. 
She’s all you’ve got — if she was mine — well, I’d want 
to give her a chance.” He was grave then and gave 
his head a serious twist. 

“Pontiac Power wants the bank, eh?” the doctor 
muttered. “Well, they’re all right so far as I know, 
but between you and me and the rest of the town, Ezam, 
Harris don’t wear very well.” He shrugged. “I’d hate 
to think of Thad Parker’s wife if I was him — and a lot 
of other men and women. Hear anything about his 
new road proposition?” 


176 


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The banker nodded. 

“He wants it — bad.” 

“He’ll get it, then.” 

“He always has.” 

“And Foraker’s Folly is going to hold the bag?” 

“Oh, I don’t think he could work that, but maybe 
he’ll make Helen trouble. Humphrey thinks so. He’s 
feeling the supervisors out, I’m told.” 

The doctor’s mouth shut grimly. 

“Yes, Hump is getting busy. Bless his old hide!” 

“Well, most everybody has trouble,” he remarked. 
“Wish everybody had as easy a way out as you have, 
Ezam. Night. Have another voter for Pontiac Power by 
morning, I exjpect.” 

The door closed. Ezam went slowly back to his desk 
and sat there, stiff and prim on the chair, but his eyes 
dreamed. 

And across the way in his rooms above the office of 
the Banner , Humphrey Bryant rocked in a chair that 
lurched sideways each time he swayed forward. His 
shoes were off, spectacles pushed back on his head. The 
windows were open and he sat alone, looking out to where 
the lights of the Commercial House and the unusual 
gleam from the bank windows threw beams across the 
white dust of the street. 

On the opposite side of the window was another chair, 
which he had drawn from its accustomed corner before 
he sat down; a wooden rocker, stuffed with calico pillows 
and draped with the same limp material. It had been in 
that corner ever since the old man had begun living alone, 
when Maggie Bryant gave up and was taken out to the 


TIMBER 


177 


plot of barren ground on the edge of the village and 
buried beneath the jack pines. Usually that rocker stood 
in its corner undisturbed weeks at a time, but occasionally 
there came a night, as this one, when his step on the 
stairs was slow, when he sighed wearily as he pulled 
off the Congress shoes, and at such times he would draw 
the chair out to a place by the stove in winter, to this 
place by the window in summer, and sit beside it and 
rock, and touch it now and then and talk to it — a great 
deal. 

“She seems more like our own, Maggie,” he said after 
a time. “I sat looking at her today in the office and she 
seemed like our own girl, not like some other man’s — 
I s’ pose that’s ’cause she’s young and sweet and the 
sort we’d like to have had for a daughter — if we’d ever 
had any — and she’s in trouble too — though she don’t 
know the worst yet — and needs a family — ” 

Silence, with the frogs and night insects far off. 

“No, Maggie,” shaking his head, “it won’t do to hope 
too much. Sim Burns has talked a lot and stirred folks up 
and maybe if he was inclined to back down now he 
couldn’t — and save his face — - 

“Looked up the assessed valuation of Chief Pontiac 
Power today — dams, buildings, key positions was all 
I knew — they’ve got it at two hundred thousand — 
they’ve got six millions in the county or I’ve got six 
legs. ” 

He rocked a little more violently, the chair rumbling 
on the thin carpet. 

“It’s Harris I’m afraid of — he’s intelligent and 
without scruple — which makes a worthy foe. He’s 
shrewd — I’ve prodded around a little, but they’re 


178 


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mighty close with their plans. ” He twisted his head and 
folded his hands across his stomach. 

“Poor Helen — I don’t know — she’s always come 
to me when she’s been in trouble and I’ve always been 
able to help her — but this time — I won’t have much 
to say — maybe nothing — ” 

For long he rocked there, talking to the memory of 
the woman whose empty rocker was beside him. Late 
at night he rose and from his vest pocket drew the worn 
notebook with pages devoted to dates and hours and the 
names of men. He studied it gravely. 

On the date at the top of a page he placed a gnarled 
finger. “An ace,” he muttered. “They’re always the 
first week in the month, when Pontiac Power pays off 
its other help. ” He moved his finger to the first column, 
which recorded the time and nodded briskly. “Another 
ace; there never have been two at once.” He scanned 
the names written there and riffled the pages, on each 
of which was set down the personnel of the board of super- 
visors. “ A third ace — they are all there — every time — ” 
He closed the book and held it between his old palms. 

“And — there’s a card in the hole, but I’m afraid to 
look at it — and threes, even aces, aren’t much to bet 
everything on.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Again the wide room in the Detroit House, with its 
windows giving on the formal garden, the group of white 
pines and the river. Luke Taylor sat there, his eyes 
fixed on the pines, listening to the deliberate, finely 
detailed report which his private secretary gave him. 
For an hour Rowe had talked, making no obvious effort 
to stress any one point, but watching the eyes that did 
not watch him, seeing the enthusiasm which had been 
in them give way to a cold light, watching that light 
grow hot, seeing the old lips work now and then; and 
prodding, when he knew that he had struck to the quick. 

He finished and dropped the memoranda he had used 
to the table beside him. For an interval the old man did 
not move and when his position did change it was only a 
turn of the head to set his hard gaze on the other’s face. 

“ You’re sure of this, Rowe?” 

“I’ve qualified everything I wasn’t sure of.” 

“And he said that, did he? That he wanted to use my 
money for this — this damn moonshine?” 

“Just as I’ve told you, sir.” 

“And that this was his reason: so no man could ever 
force her to cut until she gets good and ready?” 

“Those were his words, as I remember them, sir. He 
said, too, that he’d rather lose his right arm than see her 
pine logged off.” 

Luke stirred and his palms tapped the arms smartly 
while he licked his lips. 


179 


180 


TIMBER 


r “ So he’s commenced to worry about other generations, 
has he? So he’s got to be one of the old women in 
pants! I s’pose he thinks I’m a devastator, that I was 
little better than a crook when I took off my pine! So 
he wants me to use my money to wash away my sins, 
does he? ” 

He half rose from his chair and a purple rage swept 
into his face, making his hard eyes watery, making his 
lips tremble. “So he’s one — ” 

A maid rapped and entered with a package and Luke 
broke short. But perhaps he had no words, anyhow, to 
relieve the seethe of passion that was in his heart. 

“For you, Mr. Rowe,” the girl said. 

“These are photographs I took yesterday,” he said, 
breaking the string. “I had the finishing rushed — I 
knew — ” 

“Eh? What’s this? Pictures?” Luke’s anger was 
neutralized for the moment by his interest. “Pictures 
of the pine, Rowe?” 

“Yes, sir — see — ” 

He spread the damp prints on the table before him and 
Luke with unsteady hands adjusted hig spectacles and 
leaned forward to see. For a lengthy interval he scanned 
the dozen photographs, going from one to the other, 
dropping back to study some feature that caught special 
attention, scarcely breathing; gradually his hands shut 
down closer on the chair arms and a snapping light 
appeared in his blue eyes, a hungry light, a glad light, 
fierce in its hunger and in its joy. 

“Pine!” he muttered, almost reverently. “Michigan 
White Pine, Rowe! Baby pine! Good God — it’s small — 
but thick as hair on a dog!” 


TIMBER 


181 


He snatched off his spectacles and snapped: “Tolman 
was there?” 

“Got in last night.” 

“And when ’ll he report?” 

“Tomorrow night, anyhow.” 

Luke leaned back weakly and breathed rapidly. He 
drew out his great gold watch and eyed it. 

“Twelve o’clock,” he whispered. “That means — 
thirty-six hours. ” His lips shut as decisively as the case 
of the watch : with the same sort of definite snap. “Thirty- 
six hours,” he repeated petulantly. “But then — we 
can’t rush this thing! We’ve got to be sure, Rowe! Don’t 
you go gettin’ my hopes up without reason! Hopes of 
camps for the fall! God, with camps of my own in 
Michigan Pine they could throw that damn Floridy into 
the gulf! I wouldn’t need their pesky sunshine to take 
the chill of Michigan rivers out of my bones then, Rowe! 

“An’ he said, did he, that he’d rather lose a leg than 
see that stuff cut?” 

“It was an arm, sir — ” 

“Don’t be so damned accurate, Rowe! Arm, eh? He’s 
likely to get one whole side torn off!” 

At dusk that evening old man Tolman unpacked his 
turkey which he had cached on the bank of a small creek 
that ran across the plains and into Foraker’s Folly. He 
spread his blankets, built a very small fire, made coffee 
and fried bacon. He worked deftly, with the precision 
of a man who has lived well on little, scoured his dishes 
with sand, dropped a pair of green sticks on the coals 
and sat down in the smoke to defy the mosquitoes. He , 
lighted his pipe there and puffed slowly, but after several 


182 


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moments his eyes went to the ragged banners of the solid 
pine beyond him, blue-black against the fading rose of 
the sky, and his puffing became more rapid, almost 
fevered and continued so until a sputter from the pipe 
bowl indicated that nothing remained but an expiring 
coal. 

He rapped it against the heel of his boot and drew out 
a package of Peerless. He shook his head and sighed and 
almost smiled. 

“Fll be blistered !” he muttered. “Til be blistered! 
Pine — in a stand like that! Old Luke ’ll go wild — 
clean, plumb, hog wild!” 

And while Tolman watched the last glory of the dying 
day, Helen Foraker held her canoe against the rushes on 
the inside of a sharp bend in the river, while John Taylor 
in the bow shot his fly out across the swift current to 
where it milled against the far bank. 

The water above them was old rose, like the sky, and a 
faintly violet mist hung over the stream, blending with the 
bottle-green of pine trees. The air was cool and damp 
and sweet, and from the water back in the rushes, from 
the midst of the current itself, May flies were hatching, 
coming to the surface like bubbles, spreading their new, 
damp wings, struggling a moment and then rising into 
the air to mingle with millions of their kind, to find mates, 
to function and pass on in their brief cycle, weakened by 
their hour of life, dropping back to the water which had 
given them life and into which they had put the life of 
their kind. 

All about the surface was broken as fish rose to feed on 
the insects, but the girl’s eyes were fixed on the deep 


TIMBER 


183 


pool across from them, and Taylor's eyes were there as 
well, and the fly went there again and again as a fish broke 
the white-flecked velvet blue of deep water rising from 
his lair to fall back with mighty splashes. 

For twenty minutes Taylor sent his fly in, picked it up, 
dried it by false casts, drove it forward and let it rush over 
the pool; and the trout kept feeding all about that lure, 
selecting from the myriads of flies that swept over him 
only those which meant life — not death. 

Rhythmatically, like a machine, the man cast, and 
finally the girl’s eyes left the fish to watch him in silhouette 
against the sky, which had become pale orange. His 
hat was off and his profile was cleanly cut. She could 
see the ripple of arm and shoulder muscles beneath his 
shirt, could watch the good poise and co-ordination of 
trunk with limb as his whole splendid body went into the 
cast. And then the fish struck! 

With an expulsion of breath like a glad, muffled cry, 
Taylor’s right arm whipped back, above and behind his 
head. The bamboo bent in a stiff arc. His left arm tooled 
the line carefully as he gave out, as he took in, and the 
line itself where it disappeared into the current, laid back 
fin after fin of silvered water as the trout plowed here and 
there in his depths in frantic effort to be free. Upstream, 
downstream, across and back; sulking, moving slowly, 
rushing mightily; coming to the surface and showing his 
dorsal fin as he dived again; roving the bottom for snags 
or rocks that would cut the leader; for ten minutes the 
fish fought with the nobility which only the speckled 
trout puts into his will to live, and then he came gasping 
to net, looking like a dying flame with the crimson of his 
fins , the rich coloring of his belly. 


184 


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“Good work!” Helen cried and dropped her paddle. 
“A beauty! He’ll go two pounds. And you did it well!” 

Her eyes danced, her red lips parted in a glad smile and 
there was an excitement in her face, which Taylor had 
never seen there before, the enthusiasm for play, and as he 
looked at her, leaning forward, one arm stretched out to 
touch the trout, he saw a new part of her to dove-tail with 
her capability at her work, her tenderness with children: 
she was at that moment, a laughing, spontaneous young 
animal, lost in admiration of the fish he had caught, and 
in admiration of him. He knew this last; he could see it 
in her eyes. 

They went downstream under the stars, Helen in the 
bow, singing in her clear voice the chant of the old French 
boatmen, picked up when she was a little girl from some 
woodsman. 

They dragged the canoe out together, and their hands 
touched. It was the first time their flesh had met and a 
queer thrill ran through Taylor’s body. He took his 
catch and walked with Helen to the door. She bade him 
good-night and went within very quietly. He w r atched 
her and moved on to the men’s shanty, heedless of Pauguk 
who whined at her chain’s length as he passed. 

Jim Harris was inside, talking to Goddard. His speech 
was a bit louder than usual, he was a trifle eager, it 
seemed to John, to have it known that he had come to 
inquire after teams that would soon be finished with the 
hardwood logs; a few men and horses were needed at 
the lower dam, he said. 

Beauchamp, the cook, and Harris and another gathered 
about Taylor and commented on his catch. Goddard did 
not leave his bunk where he sat, elbows on knees, glowering 


TIMBER 


185 


at John. Black Joe, who was sewing a button on his 
shirt, looked up and grunted in disdain as Taylor proudly 
held up the big trout. The cook took the fish to the 
kitchen. Harris sat down beside Goddard and talked. 
Two men remained with Black Joe who, as he drew thread 
clumsily through the flannel, resumed the talk that 
Taylor had interrupted. 

“Now how about this here gold mine of Paul's, Joe?” 
one of them asked. 

The old fellow puffed on his short pipe a moment and 
then began to talk, lowly, haltingly, and those with him 
listened eagerly, set smiles on their faces. 

It was another Paul Bunion story, Taylor knew, and 
watched and tried to overhear, but could not. Ever since 
coming into this country he had heard references to Paul 
Bunion. “Who is he?” he had once asked Helen and 
she had laughed: “The Munchausen of the forests, my 
father used to say. He also said that Paul would be in 
living literature when the Baron was forgotten.” 

That explained little, but Taylor gathered that Joe 
was an authority on the great Paul. Night after night 
he would sit with a few of those who were beyond his 
scorn listening while he ambled on. He was jealous of 
his tales, though, reserving them only for those who stood 
in his favor. Taylor had tried to join the group, but each 
attempt had caused Joe to drop into sullen silence, broken 
only when John withdrew. 

As he fussed aimlessly about his bunk, Taylor watched 
Harris and Goddard. Jim talked confidentially, easily, 
and Goddard listened, smoking a cigar, evidently flattered 
by the attention. But that attention was not wholly for 
Goddard because Harris’ eyes went from time to time to 


186 


TIMBER 


Black Joe and when the two who listened to the story 
of the gold mine laughed heartily Harris stopped talking 
altogether and smiled and a certain restlessness showed 
in his eyes. 

Beauchamp came in and prepared to shave. Harris 
rose and walked toward Joe’s bunk. 

“Joe, have a cigar,” he said. 

The woodsman stopped talking. He eyed Harris slowly 
as he had at first eyed John Taylor. He removed his pipe 
and spat and said: 

“Who? Me? I promised my mother I’d never smoke 
’em!” 

Harris rumbled a laugh, but flushed slightly, for the 
contempt in Joe’s manner was unmistakable. 

“All right then, I’ll keep ’em for the wicked, Joe. Go 
on with your story,” sitting down. 

“Story? What story?” Joe asked, black eyes blazing 
and turned away and put the gnawed pipe stem between 
his teeth and smoked in confusing silence. 

Harris attempted to recover his poise, but he did not 
urge a resumption of the tale, and soon was gone, followed 
as far as his waiting car by Goddard. 

Beauchamp was laughing as he lathered his face and 
winked at John. 

“Py gosh, Jim Harris she don’ nefer get Joe to tell 
heem ’bout Paul Bunion.” He lifted two fingers of the 
hand which held the razor. “For two year, now, he 
come here for Joe to tell heem ’bout Paul. Wan taam, 
before she go dry, he make Joe drunk an’ try, but Joe — ” 
shaking his head, “she don’ gife wan damn for Jim Harris. 
She nefer say wan word ’bout Paul when he’s ’roun’. 

“I tell heem, Joe you wan beeg fool. Jim Harris pay 


TIMBER 


187 


you money for to tell ’bout Paul — but Joe she don’ care 
’bout money. Py gosh, I can’ maak moch from dat man, 
Joe — 

“An’ Jim Harris — py damn, dat’s all he wan’ dat he 
don’ git: Joe, for to tell heem ’bout Paul Bunion! Efery- 
body in Pancake, she know what Harris wan’ an’ what he 
can’ get!” He shrugged and lifted the razor to his 
cheek. 

Jim had driven away and Goddard stood alone. He 
glanced within the men’s shanty and saw Taylor talking 
to the cook. One of the great hands at his side closed 
slowly and he walked away toward the big house where 
Helen sat at her desk, turning idly the pages of a lumber 
trade journal. 

“Did you have a good time — fishing?” he asked. 

She had looked up at his entrance; at his tone she 
dropped her eyes. 

“Yes, Milt. We made a nice catch.” 

He laughed shortly. “I notice you haven’t took time 
to fish with me this spring. ” 

“No, we’ve both been very busy.” 

“Yeah — both of us. But you ain’t too busy to go out 
with Taylor.” 

A quick flush appeared in her cheeks. “That’s entirely 
uncalled for Milt. You do a lot lately to make it 
unpleasant for me. I don’t think it’s fair in you and I 
don’t like it because — you haven’t the right.” 

The hand at his side closed tightly again. “No right,” 
he growled. “Maybe not. Before he come up here, 
though, you used to think enough of me.” 

“I thought of you then as I do now: as a good friend, 
is a loyal friend, as a man who has done more for me in 


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the actual work than any one else. ” Her manner was 
very positive. 

“Nothing else?” he demanded. 

She looked down and shook her head. “Nothing else, 
Milt. You should know that. You have tried to persuade 
me to think — differently of you. It — it has made it 
very hard for me, because I don’t want to hurt you, — and 
I can’t — ” 

“And yet you’ll run around with this — this — ” 
gesturing toward the men’s shanty. 

“Which is my own affair,” she said simply. “I’m 
sorry, but there must be a limit to what I let you say.” 

“Maybe that’s what interests me,” he said sharply, 
narrowing his eyes and leaning over the desk. “Maybe 
I’m interested because it’s your own affair, and what 
happens to you — means a lot to me,” voice dropping 
to a whisper. “I don’t want you to make any mistakes 
that you will be sorry for.” 

His heart was racing, hot words of jealousy clamored 
to be out, but he repressed them, and searching wildly 
for some device which would grip her interest and give 
him different standing in her eyes, he threw out that 
empty threat. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

His baseless innuendo had struck the mark! She 
believed that it was backed by something other than his 
helpless jealousy. He flushed hotly and stood erect. 

“Never mind what I mean,” he said. “Maybe I can’t 
tell you — just tonight. I don’t want to say anything 
against anybody until I’m sure.” 

“But you make hints!” insistently. 

“ Yes, I’d do a lot to help you, Helen. ” 


TIMBER 


189 


She rose and moved about the desk toward him, placing 
a hand on his shoulder. He dropped his gaze and plucked 
at a paper. 

“I know that, Milt,” she said. “I know you’d do 
anything for me. There is — there’s nothing between 
Mr. Taylor and me. Please believe that. ” Her color had 
mounted. 

“I know there ain’t — much — yet — ” he mumbled. 
“I don’t want there to be, because — ” 

“I’m waiting,” when he did not finish. 

He looked up at her and was again assured when he 
saw the sober query in her face. 

“So am I — waitin’ to be sure. But I’d take a chance 
at being wrong, at being unfair to anybody for you — 
unfair to anybody, let alone him!” 

An hour later the lights were out and in the men’s 
shanty snores were heavy, but Goddard lay awake, 
flushed with helpless anger. It was little satisfaction to 
know that his groundless warning had troubled Helen. 
The time might come when he would be called to explain 
and he was seized with an agony of helplessness. 

There in the lamplight, she had looked so lovely, so 
wonderful! She was not his kind, she was finer, gentler, 
of different stuff, but for five years he had served her 
loyally, had worked night and day, had fought for her 
on occasion; and through these years he had come to 
covet her, come to picture without good reason her life 
united with his. There had been no opposition, no 
competition except the gulf between them until this 
Taylor came. From the first he had sensed the fact 
that the city man was nearer Helen than he ever could 


190 


TIMBER 


come, and he loved as he had never loved before — and 
he hated as he did not know he could hate. 

He clutched the blankets in his great hands and twisted 
them. There was so little he could do! But he did not 
know that over by a quiet stream old man Tolman lay 
awake, staring up at the stars, marvelling at what he 
had seen that day; or that Luke Taylor muttered and 
cocked his head to hear the breeze sounding in the white 
pines that stood in his garden and recalled those photo- 
graphs he had seen that day, or that Philip Rowe sat 
in his room smoking, thin lips drawn in a strange smile 
of triumph. 

These he could not know, and he did not know that 
in another bunk in that same building another man lay 
sleepless, hearing again the bitter words of Marcia Murray, 
quailing from them, suffering, and feeling that pain and 
humiliation absolved by the touch of Helen Foraker’s 
hand on his, beside the Blueberry that evening. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


So passed Tuesday. And Wednesday passed, fair and 
clear and peaceful overhead and in the forest. The last 
of the rafts were coming down the river without trouble 
or delay; the band-saw in the mill ate steadily through 
the good logs, the piles of lumber beside the track grew. 
There was no hint of trouble and the shaking that John 
Taylor’s very soul had undergone in his scene with Marcia 
steadily subsided under three influences: the first was 
the fact that he had made peace with himself; the second, 
that he had won his father’s trust and interest in his plan, 
so in a matter of days he would be able to tell Helen 
Foraker that the threat which Sim Burns held over her 
could be met with a laugh; and the third influence was 
the girl of the forest herself, whose charm and consequence 
grew hourly, bringing a strange combination of peace and 
restlessness. 

But Wednesday evening Jim Harris’ car rolled out 
toward Foraker’s Folly again and picked up Tolman who, 
his turkey packed, stood beside the unused road waiting. 
Two hours later, the old cruiser sat in the telephone booth 
in the Commercial House, pouring his information over 
the wire into the ear of Luke Taylor, who clutched the 
receiver and strained forward, whose eyes glittered 
avidly as he listened and whose responses were short, 
profane and joyful. 

Thursday afternoon John was in Pancake, billing out 

[191 


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TIMBER 


another shipment of his lumber, arranging for more cars. 
He finished his errand and stood in the small ticket 
office making some necessary notes when the telegraph 
key set up an insistent clamor. The agent cut in and 
answered, slipped blanks into the typewriter and began 
to take. 

John started out. 

“Wait — this ’s for you,” the man said. 

Taylor closed the door and stood beside the operator’s 
chair, reading his name and address as it went down, 
letter by letter. 

And then came this, a letter, a syllable, a word at a 
time: 

“Rowe says you would rather lose right arm than see 
pine you brought to my attention cut. If you want to 
help me in logging this place I will use you. If not, get 
away from the wheels. They are going to go round and 
you will regret reckless offer of anatomy in name of 
moonshine. — L. Taylor.” 

He took the yellow sheet and stared blankly at the typed 
message. He heard the operator say, “Sign this,” in a 
voice that came from a great distance. He walked out of 
the station and stood on the platform, reading the warning 
again, numb and bewildered. 

Luke Taylor wanted Foraker’s Folly! His father, who 
had experienced his highest moments when his men were 
taking pine forests from the Michigan valleys, who had 
grumbled since John could remember that there was no 
joy in living, who had dreamed aloud of Michigan pine, 
who had wistfully, irately voiced the futile wish that 
he might finish his years as he began his ascendency to 
fortune, harvesting more of the pine which had made 


TIMBER 


193 


him a power! His father saw happiness at last in Helen 
Foraker’s pine! His father wanted to do that which John 
had wanted to make forever impossible! His father, 
greedy, stubborn, powerful even in his wornout body, 
wanted to possess and cut that timber, making of the 
forest lumber and blackened slashing! 

He stopped on the walk and read the message again, 
and thrust his hands into his pockets and stared blankly 
across the street. He did not see the office of the Banner 
or the poolroom or any of the flimsy, familiar buildings. 
He saw his father’s face, saw the ruthless light in his eyes, 
saw the thin lips stretch in a greedy smile, and heard his 
hard voice saying the things that had come to him by 
telegraph. 

“Oh, God,” he muttered. “I wanted to help — and 
I brought this on her!” 

He went into the bank to make a deposit. He heard 
Ezam Grainger say to a farmer: 

“No, she isn’t so well today — yes, I’ve sold and am 
going to take her right out of here,” and clear his throat 
and blink rapidly to keep the mist of worry from his eyes. 

Taylor gave no heed, no more did he know what Jim 
Harris said when they met on the bank steps, or what 
Henry Wales said when he entered the Commercial House 
to call Detroit by telephone. 

It seemed hours before the connection was made. He 
walked the office floor and read and re-read that telegram; 
the paper grew wet from the nervous moisture of his fingers 
and finally the letters themselves blurred before his eyes 
as the import of what he had done revealed its awful 
possibilities. Better anything than this: Luke Taylor 
the destroyer, with his will and fortune, set against Helen 


194 


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Foraker, who played a lone hand for an intangible thing 
like an ideal. 

The telephone bell whirred. 

“Yes, Taylor?” 

It was Rowe's voice. 

“I was calling father, Phil.” 

“He understands that. He wants me to talk for him.” 

“Isn't he there?” 

“Right here beside me.” 

“Then let me talk to him, please!” 

Pause. He heard Rowe’s voice, much fainter. “He 
insists on talking to you, sir. ” Another voice, but he could 
not distinguish the words; then: 

“Your father still wants to know if you think more of 
that pine forest than you do of your right arm?” 

“I — I haven’t changed my mind since you were here. ” 

A wait, hollow, indistinct voices. “I will be up again 
Sunday — your father says if you change your mind 
you may talk it over with me then. I have authority to 
deal for him.” 

His voice was very even, impersonal, but somehow it 
stung John as though it had been a crow of triumph. 
He waited a moment, breathing rapidly. 

“Very well, Rowe,” he said finally. “I will talk to you 
Sunday. Good-bye. ” 

He walked from the hotel and Humphrey Bryant 
appeared in the doorway of his office rather excitedly . 

“Going back soon?” 

“As quick as I fill up with gas.” 

“Stop in, will you? I’ve a note for Helen.” 

He turned back into the office, drawing his spectacles 
down from his forehead, thin white hair standing high 


TIMBER 


195 


above his pink scalp. He seemed hurried and flustered 
and when Taylor returned for the message he thought the 
bright blue eyes looked at him almost with hostility. 
Surely, trouble was in them, and the old editor was curt 
in his manner. 

All the way home Taylor drove doggedly. A part of 
him wanted to turn back, to go away, to leave this mess 
which he had brought down upon Foraker’s Folly. Oh, 
he had wanted to help, and he had brought the ideal 
which was represented in the pine forest face to face with 
a hungry power which was its worst enemy! He had 
wanted to help and had done the worst he could have 
done by conscious planning. He had wanted to lighten 
the burden on Helen’s shoulders and had increased it to 
a crushing weight — so he wanted to run — to run. 

That was the mean part of him, that was the impulse 
which was out of the question. There was but one thing 
for him to do : Tell her, face the fact, stand beside her and 
fight his father — with his inexperience and bare hands. 

A sudden emptiness came about his middle, as though 
strength had drained from his vitals. 

Helen was not at home when he entered, prepared to 
blurt out his confession. He left the note from Bryant 
on her desk and went out, so absorbed in his problem 
that he even forgot Pauguk and went too close and had 
to leap beyond her reach as she rushed at him, snarling 
wickedly. 

He could not eat that night, and Beauchamp made 
much of his bad appetite, complaining half in fun as he 
brought food to the table. 

“Ah well,” the Frenchman said finally, nodding his 


196 


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head. “I unnerstan’, M’sieur Taylor. Eet iss spring. 
All de bird, she buil’ nest; all de animal, she maak lofe. 
An’ a yo’ng man, she feel her ’eart turn ofer, too. Eh? ” 

He laughed and others laughed and John flushed. He 
was conscious of Goddard’s eyes on him with glowering 
ill temper. 

Helen did not return till after dusk. Taylor had been 
walking the river bank, miserable and at once impatient 
and filled with dread. He saw her standing beside her 
desk, scanning intently a single sheet of paper. He ran 
forward. His rap was most perfunctory; he opened the 
screen and stepped in. 

She turned and faced him and he saw fright in her face 
that chilled his heart. Just for that instant, and then she 
turned and went unsteadily across the room saying: 

“I can’t talk to you — Mr. Taylor — tonight.” 

Did she know? Was she aware of what he had done? 
He managed to say: 

“Wait, Helen!” There was that in his husky tone 
which checked her against the far door. Breath clogged 
in his throat, but he heard himself saying: “Tell me why 
you can’t talk to me.” 

He crossed the room toward her, bound to hold her 
there if necessary, to tell his wretched story quickly, to 
save himself not at all, and to offer all he had to offer as 
help. 

He was decisive, showing a strength she had not seen 
before, a power which held her there. He stopped within 
arm’s length of the girl and looked into her face. He saw 
no anger, no resentment; just misery. She was unpoised, 
she was shaken, like a little girl who has been badly 
frightened. 


TIMBER 


197 


“What is it?” he demanded. “Why can’t you talk to 
me. I must know — because I have something to say 
to you.” 

He spoke swiftly, with desperate assurance, but the 
desperation did not carry to her: only the assurance. 
He seemed strong, big and so much in earnest, with 
no humility, no deference. She held the paper she had 
been reading toward him with a gesture that was almost 
timid. 

“That explains,” she said, and stood there, fingers 
spread on her breast while he moved nearer the light to 
read. 

It was the note he had brought from Humphrey Bryant, 
written on a sheet of news print. 

“Dear Helen: — I can’t trust the telephones and must 
stay on the job to do what I can, so this news must go to 
you by note. Gird yourself for fighting and trouble. 

“A special meeting of the supervisors is called for Satur- 
day, set ahead two weeks, I understand, solely because I 
have been trying to head it off. They will take action to 
submit the bonds for roads and a new court house at a 
July election. If this goes through, it will be hard to stop 
their pillaging, for we have not been mistaken in the 
property which they expect will pay the bill. 

“To make matters worse, Harris got wind of my activi- 
ties against the proposal and has invited the entire board 
to a fishing party at the lower dam. They are having a 
high time, well guarded. I daren’t leave town to see you 
for fear of missing a chance to get at them when he is 
not there. 

“Troubles never come singly. Pontiac Power has bought 
Grainger out. Your mortgage is due this month and I am 


198 


TIMBER 


trying to get him to renew it himself before he leaves town 
with his wife, who is sick. 

‘ ‘There is no use playing ostrich because a storm is 
coming. Keep a stiff upper lip and get mad! If we keep 
mad enough, we can weather this crisis and we know 
nothing worse can happen. — Yours to the last ditch, H. B.” 

Taylor looked up, brows gathered, eyes reflecting the 
bewilderment that had come over him. 

“ — nothing worse can happen,” he quoted, looking 
again at the page. 

She began to speak, but he could not hear her. 

Nothing worse could happen! Ah, the chincaneiy of 
Jim Harris, the scheming of these backwoods politicians, 
the misfortune of having her mortgage in unsympathetic 
hands were inconsequential details compared to what he 
had to tell her. 

Her words swam into his consciousness: 

“ — so I’ve thought all along it was something to meet — 
later. I might have known that they wouldn’t delay, 
that it would come now, not next month, not next year — 
but somehow,” spreading her hands “I haven’t had the 
courage to bring it close and tell myself that the danger 
was here — and real. I’ve grown a little tired like my 
father grew tired; I’ve had a lot to meet — and now this 
comes — ” 

Her eyes were very wide as she looked into his and shook 
her head slowly; her chin trembled. 

“And this other — if I can’t renew that mortgage — ” 
with a helpless lift of one hand. “Twenty thousand 
dollars! I couldn’t raise a thousand! And my father’s 
work — our hopes — oh, I feel so much alone!” 

Her arms were half extended as she stopped. She 


TIMBER 


199 


averted her face, and for a moment Taylor stood there 
stunned. She was broken by what Bryant had written 
her — and if he should tell what he had come to tell? 
That would be cruelty now, he told himself; it would 
be sheer heartlessness not to spare her further suffering 
for a few hours at least — and while he waited, helpless 
to help her, he saw her clutch her fists and a low moan 
escaped her lips. 

The sound was like the bite of a lash and he stepped 
forward, reached out his hands, checked the gesture and 
left them hovering over her shoulders. For an'instant he 
was so and then drew back, afraid to touch her, lost, 
knowing no word to say, no move to make; but a 
ragged breath caught in her throat and he found his 
palms on her arms, gripping roughly, turning her about, 
and the feel of her flesh under his fingers clarified every- 
thing. 

“Helen!” he cried. “Helen! you’re not alone! Fm 
here, with you. I’m going to stay. I’m going to help you ! ’ ’ 

She looked up in wonder at the manner of his voice. 
He had spoken no boast, no empty promise; there was a 
modesty, a simplicity about him which indicated strength, 
ability, earnestness, and she read those qualities in his face. 
For the first time she saw maturity there, for the first time 
she was almost in awe of him. 

She felt his hands gripping her arms. She felt herself 
drawn forward, close and closer to him, and put out her 
hands, not to hold her body away, but to place them 
against his breast, pressing her finger tips into his flesh. 
Her lips were parted, breath light and quick. She felt his 
arms go about her almost roughly, saw his face darken 
and heard his voice, thick and husked with passion: 


200 


TIMBER 


“I won’t let them harm you!” he said tensely. “Ill 
stand by you. I don’t know much — yet; I’m young, but 
I’m strong and with you to fight for — I can do anything! ” 

He trembled. She was there in his arms, submissive, 
her hands were against his body in a strange caress and 
he felt her limbs touching his, warm and firm. He closed 
his eyes and shook his head as though fearful that this 
would not endure a moment of sightlessness; but she 
was there when he opened them. This was real; this 
was no vagary of his distressed mind — and he laughed. 

That laugh roused Helen and she drew back, breaking 
his embrace slowly, staring at him as though this that 
he had done frightened her. 

“John!” she said under her breath. “John? What is — 
this?” 

She backed away. 

“Don’t you know?” he muttered. She did not speak, 
and he advanced slowly until he was looking down into her 
uplifted face. “Don’t you know?” She did not answer 
and he took one of her wrists in his hand savagely. 
“ Helen ! Don’t you know — now ! ” 

Her breath was driven from her lungs as he wrapped his 
arms about her fiercely, and that breath, escaping through 
lips and nostrils, was hot on his cheek as it lowered to 
hers — as hot as his lips on her mouth. 

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. 

“Yes — I know — now,” she whispered. 

Her eyes opened and looked into his; for a long moment 
their gazes clung, and in that look was an understanding 
which made words both inadequate and unnecessary. 
But words followed. In low voices, in broken sentences, 
rising in tone and with fewer pauses. 


TIMBER 


201 


“ And you came — when I needed you so!” she said in 
a thin, strained voice. “I need you, John. I’m going — 
to depend on you — so much — so much. ” He tried to 
hold her even closer, but she took her arms from about 
his neck and drew away, backing toward the door. “I 
need you so badly — and I’ve needed you for so long — 
I guess — that I can’t have you near me tonight John — 
not tonight — not this night. ” 

He followed impulsively to the door, but it closed in his 
face. 

“ Please! Please!” he heard her say through it. He 
made no move. The sound of her steps died away. He 
stood alone in the room, hands at his side opening and 
closing slowly. 

And in the darkness outside, Milt Goddard who had 
spied and seen all, fingered the bit of the axe he had taken 
from the woodpile. 

Taylor started across the room to the door and Goddard 
crouched and crept forward — and stopped. John opened 
the screen. 

The axe dropped from the other’s hands, he moved 
away, putting the great trunk of Watch Pine between 
himself and Taylor. Then he turned and stumbled into 
the night, muttering: 

“I ain’t got the nerve — I ain’t got th’ nerve to kill 
him!” 


CHAPTER XIX 


In such a manner, happiness was born of turmoil. 

Helen Foraker had taken young Taylor into her hands 
and unconsciously moulded him into the man she would 
have; he had grown, he had changed, and though he 
had yet to prove his mettle, he bore rich promise. And 
when he came in her darkest hour and pledged his strength 
in her cause she found that she needed the things a man 
so moulded, could give. Not his help, first, but his love, 
his trust, the sanctuary of his arms. 

But Taylor held that secret which he dared not tell 
the girl and even that night while the glory of her yielded 
lips was still fever in his blood he felt the mounting of 
apprehension, much like the misgiving which had been 
born that night in Florida when his father made his 
gift of logs, when Philip Rowe had smirked. He went 
to sleep, memory of her hands about his neck mingling 
with his father's face leering at his efforts to protect the 
forest from a destroying force. 

“I felt so secure last night," she told him in the early 
day. “I felt that Jim Harris — no one, can hurt me now. 
I told you once that there were impulses in my heart that 
never had a chance to grow. This one, John, is the 
strongest of them; it has been held back more than any 
other; repression gave it strength. Its breaking free was 
so sudden, so overwhelming — I didn't dare stay — last 
night. " 

She put her face against his shoulder. 

There had been no restraint, no shyness in her greeting 
202 


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203 


He had her in his arms when she spoke and she could feel 
him tremble at her words, but before he could reply they 
heard Black Joe grumble at Pauguk as he came around the 
corner of the house. 

Joe came up the steps and gave his curt little bob. 

“Say, Helen, will you tell her that th’ boys at th’ mill 
found a bee tree and if she wants any honey I cattalate 
she’d better send the kids down with a bucket- ” 

“Yes, Joe; I will tell her.” 

The woodsman went and she moved close to Taylor again. 

“It’s funny, but it’s heart breaking,” she said. “That 
is what misunderstanding will do. For twenty years they 
haven’t spoken, and they loved twenty years ago. A mis- 
understanding came, and probably they’ve both forgotten 
what it was now. Stubbornness has kept them apart and 
made them both sour. My father said that Aunty May 
used to be the gayest girl on the Blueberry and that Black 
Joe always sang at his work. Their quarrel came and 
they have not spoken since. Each is only holding out for 
the other to break the silence and growing more bitter 
and older, Aunty May trying to make another woman’s 
children ease her heartache, Joe hiding the hurt under his 
crustiness and living only for the nursery. 

“We can’t ever risk a misunderstanding, can we?” 

She looked at him closely. 

“Why, John, what is it?” startled. 

“What is what?” 

“You look so — so strange!” 

He was conscious that he was flushing; flushing because 
the thing he kept from Helen for her own peace of mind 
was a splendid nucleus for misunderstanding. But she was 
on her way to Pancake, even then, to learn more of the 


204 


TIMBER 


menaces which hung over the forest. He could not tell 
her now. Tonight, he told himself, tonight he would give 
her the whole miserable story. So he laughed her startled 
question away and watched her drive down the road. 

It was night when she returned, mouth set and eyes 
serious. 

“It looks dark, ” she said hoarsely in answer to his 
question. “Darker than ever. All last night and all today 
Humphrey Bryant has tried to get in touch with the 
different supervisors, but Jim Harris has them all down at 
the big dam where they can’t be reached. Harris has 
heard that Humphrey was trying to block his game and 
fixed so we couldn’t get to any of the board until it meets 
— and then Harris will be there, and he holds them in 
the hollow of his hand. 

“If he could be locked up, driven away from that 
meeting long enough for Humphrey to get at them! He 
has something up his sleeve, some little thing, such a 
faint hope that he won’t even confide in me ! All he asks 
is ten minutes alone with the board, and he might as 
well ask for help from Harris!” 

It was later in the evening that Taylor walked aim- 
lessly toward the nursery. He had not seen Black Joe 
there and was almost on the humped figure which prodded 
in a seed bed before he noticed the old fellow. Joe looked 
up, gave a contemptuous sniff and began gathering his few 
implements, for it was nearly dark. He went off toward 
the men’s shanty without again looking at Taylor. 

John walked on and stood looking absently down the 
rows of transplants a few moments and then retraced his 
steps until a movement in the ground attracted him. He 
watched and saw the stirring of a mole as it made slow 


TIMBER 


205 ' 

1 \ 

progress. It went beneath the path and entered a seed 
bed, where stood pine trees no higher than a man’s finger 
is long. Taylor watched the tiny trees heaving before the 
disturbance, saw their hair-like roots break through the 
loam. He removed his pipe and looked toward the shanty 
for Joe. 

“ By Jove!” he muttered. “That’ll hurt ’em.” 

He walked quickly out of the nursery. 

Joe was on the deacon bench, filling his pipe. Two of 
the men were with him and Taylor knew that the woods- 
man was settling himself for a yarn. He hesitated as 
Joe looked at him with indifference, but he went on down 
the room and stopped by the group. 

“I was in the nursery, Joe,” he said, “and I saw some- 
thing you might want to know. ” The older man crammed 
the Peerless into his pipe-bowl and glared up at the 
intruder. “ There’s a mole in one of the seed beds and — ” 

No chance to finish! With a snort of alarm Joe was 
on his feet, hurrying toward the door. 

“Come on,” he snapped, when John did not follow. 
“Show me where!” 

Taylor followed at a trot as Joe hastened across the 
open space and in the dusk searched for the telltale welt 
in the soft earth. 

“There! See?” 

Joe had seen the welt and the disturbed trees and he 
commenced to curse, steadily, frightfully, as he floundered 
about in the darkness. 

“Cut back to th’ shanty an’ git somethin’!” he snapped. 
“Somethin’ to make a widder mole — ’n axe or anythin’ — 
cut an’ run for it!” 

Taylor cut and ran, passing the two who had been with , 


206 


TIMBER 


Joe inside and who had followed leisurely. A broad-axe 
was within the door, the first implement John saw; he 
seized it and ran back. 

Then followed a tense interval with Joe, axe upraised, 
stooping over the seed bed, watching in the growing 
darkness for the movement which would betray the 
intruder’s presence. He muttered and gave no heed to 
the others. John kept close by him, also on the watch 
for the movement in the soil and once Joe pushed him 
aside as they both groped over the same area. 

“Git away,” he complained, “or you’ll git hurted along 
with this here blind devil!” 

John stood back, then, but he did not go away. The 
other two sauntered away, uninterested in the affair 
which had aroused Joe to such excitement. The old 
fellow kept up his vigilance, axe ready to strike, muttering 
to himself, until it was no longer possible to see. 

Then he straightened and looked about, saw Taylor 
and grunted. 

“Damn him to hot hell!” he whispered. “He’ll ruin 
this here bed if he gits a chanct!” 

It was the closest to a friendly comment he had ever 
made to the other and John moved closer. 

“Sh!” Joe warned. “Keep still! He’s here some’eres 
an’ we got to watch. You git a lantern; I’ll stand guard. ” 

John returned to the shanty and came back with the 
lighted lantern. Again they searched, but without result, 
and then Joe directed John to follow the mole’s trail 
to the boundary of the nursery and tramp it down 
carefully, while he kept up his vigilant watch, eyes bright, 
head moving constantly as, stooped above the bed, he 
still searched for movement. 


TIMBER 


207 


Fifteen minutes passed, a half hour; no more indication 
of the mole. 

“He’s here yet,” Joe whispered. “We gotta wait. 
Here gimme, that lantern.” 

Joe placed it on the ground so they could see. Then he 
lowered his axe and stood by, relaxing for the first 
time. Taylor had been partly amused by this performance, 
but as he saw the seriousness with which Joe confronted 
this comparatively trivial damage to his seedlings his 
interest was thoroughly aroused. 

“I reckon mebby we could set down,” Joe whispered 
and dragged a cracker box toward the lantern. “We’ll 
watch an’ we’ll sure slay him, th’ first move he makes!” 

In his plan he was including Taylor, on whom he had 
always looked with scorn! 

John settled himself with a fresh pipe, and Joe sat 
beside him, silent, eyes on the damaged bed, axe in his 
hands. Twice he started up sharply; once he rose and 
stood crouched over the place, axe upraised, ready to 
strike, holding his breath; then sank to the box with a 
muttered curse. 

He looked at Taylor closely, for a long moment; 
then down at the axe, and something like chagrin flickered 
in his eyes. 

“Anybody who didn’t have good sense ’uld think a 
feller was crazy to carry on like this, ” he said, straighten- 
ing a leg, and again looking at the mighty weapon with 
which he had planned to kill the small rodent, “but these 
here seed was special selected an’ we can’t let no damned 
mole spoil our work.” 

John sensed that Joe feared he might be making himself 
absurd and wanted to avoid that impression at any cost. 


208 


TIMBER 


“ That’s right,” he said lowly, “ We’ll get him.” 

Joe spit and nodded. 

“Damn bet! Well set here all night, but we’ll git him. ” 

Spit. Silence. Voices from the shanty. 

“ Course with ordinary seedlin’s a man wouldn’t set 
out all night,” he went on after a bit, “but these here’s 
different — special select; somethin’ me an’ Foraker 
started long time ago an’ me an’ Helen’s been keepin’ up. ” 

John watched him; Joe was talking without being urged, 
without much reserve, after those weeks of aloof scorn. 

“Y’see,” gesturing with his paper of tobacco, “I took 
these here seeds from trees that was naterally whoopin’ 
er up, growin’ like weeds. Me an’ Foraker ’nd Helen, now, 
thinks mebby we c’n work trees like the gov’m’t works 
wheat an’ corn; git th’ seed from the best stock; improve 
your — ” 

He stooped and leaned forward, rising slowly to a 
crouch, spitting on a palm as he grasped his axe; then 
sank back again with a quiet oath of disappointment. 

“That sounds reasonable,” said John and nodded. 

Joe looked at him sharply, as though suspecting that 
Taylor was skeptical, but he saw the genuine regard for 
his idea in the younger man’s face and looked away and 
sighed with satisfaction. 

“I thought mebby you had a little sense,” he said. 

Taylor smiled and buttoned his coat. 

“You can’t do much in a short time, though, can 
you?” he asked. 

“Twenty years, mebby; mebby more. Foraker used 
to say a lifetime.” Shrug. Spit. “Me ’nd Helen ’nd 
him are th’ only ones — besides the professors — who’ve 
got sense enough to git intrusted. ” 


l TIMBER] 


209 


“ Maybe you’ll let me in on that, Joe. I’m interested. 
There are so darned many big things going on around 
here that a greenhorn can’t show interest in them all 
at once — where’d you find the seed bearers you wanted? ” 
Joe told him at length, told of their experiences, the 
data they had assembled, warming to his subject, all but 
forgetting the mole. He no longer looked away from 
Taylor, but peered closely into his face and answered 
questions and talked — and talked — and talked. 

For years he had worked in that nursery, tending his 
seedlings as he would so many children, talking to few 
but Helen and her father about his work, finding none 
but them and professional foresters who were interested 
in what he was doing. He found a pride in these accom- 
plishments and was hungry for appreciation; he could 
talk to the men of the crew about logging, could tell his 
Bunion tales and find an interested audience. But for 
the matters closest to his heart there was no outlet — 
until now, when this city boy sat beside him on a cracker 
box, watching for a mole, listening, unafraid to betray 
ignorance by questions — 

Lights went out in the shanty; sounds of men ceased. 
The moon came up and still the two sat, collars up, for 
the night was cool, whispering, watching the seed bed 
for the stirring that would end their vigil — 

And then Joe talked of the forest, what it had been, 
what it was and might be; of Foraker himself and of 
Helen — j 

Men can say worlds about women with the use of a few : 
simple words. 

“ She’s a good girl,” Joe said of Helen Foraker, without 
much emphasis, with only a slight nod of his head, but in 


210 


TIMBER 


that sentence was an indication of devotion and loyalty 
that could not be mistaken. “She’s — 

“Look there!” 

His whisper was the barest breath. They rose together, 
creeping toward the lantern. There was no wind, their 
movements were of the lightest, but in the center of the 
bed was a stirring, a heaving among the little trees — 

The axe rose slowly; it poised, and then it swept down 
and buried itself in the ground — 

“Got him!” cried Joe. “Got him!” as he turned back 
the earth with the blade. 

He grinned then and spit in delight and repeated again 
and again that he had “got him.” 

Carefully he made temporary repairs to the damage 
in the bed and then picked up the lantern. 

“Now we’ll hit th’ bunks, Johnny,” he chuckled. “A 
good night’s work, lad!” 

They walked slowly toward the men’s shanty, shoulder 
to shoulder, like old friends. Before the door they stopped 
and Taylor said: 

“There’s one thing I want to put up to you, Joe. 
You’re the only man I can go to with it and it’s about — 
Helen. ” 

“Helen?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’d do a lot for her, wouldn’t you, Black Joe?” 

“Who? Me? Dyin’ would be easy — for her!” 

He went on haltingly to extoll the girl’s virtues and 
Taylor smoked thoughtfully, some of the perplexity that 
had been in his gathered brows even during that successful 
venture into a new friendship departing, a strange sort of 
twinkle in his eyes, and when Joe stopped Taylor looked 


TIMBER 


211 


about to see that they were unobserved and lowered his 
voice and talked; and Joe nodded and grunted and once 1 
he cursed heavily, forbiddingly. 

Joe began to question — to plan in whispers. 

“Sure, I know! I alius watch ’em as I don’t like. I 
know his habits — he’s chased after me — chased — an’. 
I wouldn’t talk to him — not before — ” 

He laughed silently. 


CHAPTER XX 


- Saturday was a lazy June day; there was little breeze, 
little movement of any sort and blue-bottle flies droned 
through the open door of the office of the Blueberry Banner. 
Humphrey Bryant sat in his chair, arms hanging limply 
from his shoulders, one foot resting on its side, the other 
leg sprawled before him. 

It was nearly noon. All day yesterday, all the night 
before he had worked to batter down the defense that 
Jim Harris had built about the individuals of his board 
of supervisors — his by right of possession. It had 
availed nothing. Bryant had watched them come into 
town, watched them gather at the court house and he 
could see them now, in the upper corner of the red building, 
moving about as they got at the work before them — 

That he could see, and something else, the feet*of Jim 
Harris, propped against the window sill, as he tilted his 
chair backward and let the machinery of legislation 
grind its way — the way he had directed. Those feet 
rested idly enough, lazily enough, but Bryant knew that 
they were ready to stamp down upon any challenge that 
might be flaunted, that Harris would not leave that 
meeting until the motion to adjourn had carried, that 
it was such vigilance that had made him valuable to 
Pontiac Power, and a menace to honest men. 

And the old editor was slumped listlessly in his chair, 
riffling the pages of that worn note book because he was 
212 


TIMBER 


213 


an old man, and a shrewd old man; being old, he had lost 
his best vigor; being shrewd he did not deceive himself. 
His heart did not falter and he tried to see clearly, but 
he read in those contented feet a barrier against which any 
javelin he might hurl in the cause of right would crumple 
and fall. 

The morning freight came down and John Taylor and 
Black Joe, who had swung aboard at Seven Mile, dropped 
off and walked up First Street, Taylor looked into the 
Banner office. 

“Have dinner with us?” he asked. 

“No thanks, Taylor. Chained to the desk today. ” 

There was no laugh in the blue eyes and they did not 
rest long on Taylor’s face. They were fixed on those feet 
in that court house window. 

John and Black Joe went on. 

“Chained to his desk, ” Black Joe muttered and laughed, 
“An’ his eyes glued on that damn tin court house!” 

They entered the poolroom. It was a dingy, smelly 
place, with two battered tables on a littered floor that 
still bore the faint marks of river boots. The cigar case 
was fly specked and broken and patched. There was a 
dusty one-eyed deer on the wall beside a lithograph of a 
fat-legged girl in red stockings, and a dirty-faced clock. 
A stuffed owl stared fixedly from the opposite wall and 
there was a faded photograph of the Blueberry, jammed 
with pine logs over which rivermen posed self-consciously. 

Joe eyed the stock of cigars. 

“What seegar is it Jim Harris smokes?” he asked. 
“He give me one onct — ” 

“This one, Joe,” the greasy-faced proprietor said. 
“ Fifteen centers. Good stuff, that; none better. Jim 


214 


TIMBER 


always buys here, ” proudly. “ Comes in after every meal, 
regular as a clock.” 

“That so? Always comes here, eh?” 

“Yup. Says I know how to keep tobacco, an’ Jim sure 
ought to know.” 

“He sure ought,” said Joe, putting the cigar in his 
pocket and bringing out his pipe and Peerless. 

The two retired to a bench in the window and talked, 
heads close together. 

Noon. Movement on the court house steps as the 
board adjourned for dinner and trooped together to the 
Commercial House to eat with Jim and on Jim. 

Harris was in fine feather. This morning the resolutions 
had been drawn as he had planned and this afternoon the 
board would pass them, as he had planned. Within 
sixty days the county would bond itself for a new court 
house which was sop to the community pride, and the 
roads, which would speed the settling of that waste land 
to the northward with more wretched families. 

After the meal Harris bought cigars for the board 
members at the hotel desk; he did not take one for himself 
and when the others started back toward the court house 
he lumbered across the street to the poolroom, waving his 
hand and saying that he would be along directly. 

He meant that. But he was forced to w T ait for attention 
because the proprietor sat on the wide window ledge, 
beside him was Lucius Kildare and on the bench facing 
them sat Black Joe, pipe in his hands, leaning forward, 
talking earnestly. John Taylor occupied the rest of the 
bench and another lounger leaned over the back, grinning 
broadly. 

Black Joe’s gaze was directed at the face of the poolroom 


TIMBER 


215 


owner and he held the man’s attention even after he knew 
that the great Jim Harris waited. 

Then the proprietor broke away and Joe leaned back 
and puffed while Harris took a handful of cigars from the 
box. Silence. 

“An’ you never heerd tell ’bout Paul’s mule team?” 
Joe asked Taylor. 

“Never!” 

Joe shook his head and clicked his tongue. “My Lord, 
you’re igerent,” he said and hitched about to face Taylor, 
and see Harris. He waited a moment before he commenced 
to talk, prefacing his tale by a moment of suspense, as is 
the way with the best spinners of yarns. Harris, biting 
off the end of his cigar, watched. There had been no 
unfriendly stare from Black Joe this time; there seemed 
to be no barrier between the woodsman and any who 
might be within earshot. For months Jim Harris had 
awaited such a moment. 

He looked down the street. The last of the supervisors 
was disappearing within the court house. Had Joe waited 
another instant Jim might have gone on to join them, 
but Joe did not wait. He commenced to talk, slowly, 
deliberately. He told his story as the Bunion stories have 
been told for two generations in the Lake States. Those 
about him were schooled listeners; they knew when to 
inject the questions that led him into the byways of 
Bunion classics, knew when to laugh, when to repress 
their mirth until the point of the narrative should be 
completed. 

And Jim Harris waited and listened, wanting to go, 
putting aside his caution from moment to moment because 
Black Joe was recounting the adventures of this mythical 


216 


TIMBER 


logger and to hear any of Joe’s kind and generation tell 
these tales is to be blessed. 

This is the story that Black Joe told: 

“Now, this here mule team of Paul’s was a right good 
pair. They done a lot of work an’ Paul he treated ’em 
right, alius cattelatin’ it was best policy to be good to 
stock. When they was workin’ hard it cost a lot to keep 
’em up fer sure, but when they was just standin’ in th’ 
barn he only fed ’em four bushels of corn to th’ feed. 

“Paul fed ’em hisself, when he wasn’t away, an’ when 
he was gone Swede Charley looked atter ’em — along 
with th’ ox-team, little Babe an’ her mate. You heerd 
tell ’bout that team, ain’t you? 

“My God, Taylor, don’t you know nothin’? This here 
was a good team, too. Never seen ’em myself, but I 
knowed a chore boy who worked for Paul th’ winter of 
th’ blue snow, an’ he was a-tellin’ as how little Babe 
was four axe-handles wide atween th’ eyes — ” 

He spit and wiped his chin. 

“ One day when Paul was loggin’ off section thirty-seven, 
he was feedin’ th’ mules an’ he sees what looks like a 
good-sized kernel of corn. Might’ good-sized kernel, all 
right. Paul, he was alius lookin’ atter good things, so he 
stuck her in his vest pocket an’ didn’t give it to th’ mules. 

“Atter dinner he was rummagin’ round fer a tooth- 
pick an’ locates this here kernel o’ corn. He was out 
behint th’ barn jus’ then an’ so he kicks a hole in th’ 
ground an’ plants her — 

“That was th’ big bam. See, Paul he kep’ a lotta teams 
on th’ haul which meant pret’ big barn. Big job, cleanin’ 
this here barn an’ Paul was great for this — now, efficiency. 


TIMBER 


217 


So he had th’ barn set on wheels an’ moved it along every- 
day, ’stead of acleanin’ her out. 

“That night a settler drives in to talk to Paul ’bout 
some cord wood. He was thar awhile an’ ’long ’bout 
dusk he goes out fer to start home — 

“In a minute he was back an’ says to Paul that his 
team’s got away. 

“ ‘So’? says Paul, ‘Where’d you leave ’em?’ 

“ ‘Out tied to that air telephone pole behint your 
barn,” gesturing. 

“ ‘They ain’t no telephone pole thar,’ says Paul. 

“ ‘Sure they is,’ says the settler. 

“So Paul goes out to investigate. He an’ th’ settler 
walks aroun’ behint th’ barn an’ th’ settler says to look 
thar; thar she is. Paul looks an’ blinks because b’ God, 
his corn had sprouted an’ this here telephone pole was 
his cornstalk! 

“Well, it was a pret’ high cornstalk by then an’ Paul 
leans back to look up an’ see how high it was an’, b’ gosh, 
wdiat’s he see but that air team an’ wagon belongin’ to th’ 
settler away up thar, most outta sight. Th’ stalk had 
growed up an’ took th’ whole shebang along! 

“Now Paul he knowed he’s got fer to get this here 
team down, so he sends fer Swede Charley an’ says, 
‘Charley, you climb up an’ ontie that air team.’ 

“So Charley he spits on his hands an’ starts up. Darn 
good climber, Charley; he climbs pret’ darn fast, an’ 
he gits away up thar an’ then they see him makin’ funny 
motions, wavin’ his arms an’ such, an’ th’ boys begin to 
wonder what’s up. 

“Well, Paul he figgers it out. Charley can’t make it 
an’ ’s tryin’ to slide down, but this gol-darn stock’s 


218 


TIMBER 


growin’ up faster ’n he can slide down an 7 he keeps right 
on goin’ outta sight.” 

He paused and pulled twice at his pipe, ignoring the 
mirth about him. 

“Now, this ’s pret’ serious, thinks Paul, Swede Charley 
up thar an’ goin’ higher; what’s goin’ to happen to him? 
He’ll starve, won’t he? 

“ So Paul runs to th’ cook shanty an’ gits a lotta biscuits 
an’ into th’ van where he keeps his shot gun. 

“Pret’ good gun, this here one of Paul’s. Fair-sized 
gun, too. Paul he used to load each bar’l with a dish pan 
full of powder an’ brick bats an’ he’d shoot her first east 
an’ if he didn’t git game thar, he’d shoot her west; alius 
got game one place or t’other. 

“So Paul loads her with biscuits an’ shoots both bar ’Is 
up toward where Charley’s went, most outta sight by 
then. And they knowed Charley ’d have somethin’ to 
eat ontil they could git him down. 

“Th’ settler he walks home an’ Paul he goes to bed, 
thinkin’ ’bout that air team an’ Charley. Nothin’ he can 
do till mornin’ but when mornin’ comes, th’ top of that 
stalk, th’ team an’ Charley is all clean outta sight — 

“Paul he gits right worried. Atter a few days they 
commences to find dead crows in th’ swamp. Crows kep* 
failin’ down plumb dead an’ nothin’ but skin an’ bones. 
Lot o’ crows. Paul he figgers that air out, too. This 
here team’s died up thar an’ th’ crows has started up 
atter ’em for a nice meal, but they ’s starved to death on 
th’ way!” 

Taylor glanced at the battered clock. It was after one. 

“Now this here cornstalk gives no sign of slowin’ up. 
She grows over ag’in’ the barn an’ they have fer to put 


TIMBER 


219 


th’ barn on another set o’ wheels so’s it’ll run sideways. ^ 
Then she grows ag’in’ th’ men’s shanty an’ they has to 
put that on wheels too, an’ th’ cornstalk keeps crowdin’ 
’em apart ontil they has to string a telephone line atween 
th’ barn an’ shanty to communicate ready-like. 

“Paul he’s pret’ worried. Never seen nothin’ like this 
here afore. One day a man drives into camp with a feather 
in his hat an’ gold buttons on his coat an’ solid gold medals 
on his chist an’ gold things on his shoulders. He’s got a 
sword an’ stripes on his pants an’ shiny boots an’ he carried 
a big paper all stuck over with red sealin’ wax an’ blue 
ribbins. He walks up to Paul. 

“ ‘You Mister Bunion?’ he asks, an’ Paul he ’lows 
how he is. ‘Well I gotta warrant for your arrest from 
Congress,’ he says. 

“ ‘Warrant?’ says Paul, surprised-like. ‘From 
Congress? What for? An’ who are you?’ 

“ ‘I’m th’ Admiral of th’ Navy,’ says th’ gent, ‘An’ 
this here cornstalk ’s got its roots into Lake Huron on 
one side an’ Lake Michigan on th’ other an’ she is suckin’ 
the water up so fast that all th’ boats is aground!’ 

“Now Paul, he ain’t no mean talker, so he argufies with 
this here Admiral an’ promises him he’ll get this here corn- 
stalk out th’ way. Th’ Admiral he don’t want to leave it 
that way, but Paul he’s done a lotta loggin’ fer Congress, 
y’ know, an’ he stands pret’ well. Yup. He logged off 
North Dakoty. See, when th’ Governor who was a 
reformed Swede found out th’ King o’ Sweden was drivin’ 
all th’ good farmers out an’ that they was cornin’ over 
here, he wants ’em in Dakoty. But they wa’n’t no place 
for ’em, then, so th’ governor gits Congress to say it’ll 
log off th’ state an’ Congress gives th’ contrack to Paul 


TIMBER 


220 

an’ makes good, which gives him a pret’ fair stand-in — 

“Well the Admiral he goes off an' Paul, he sets down 
to think. He’s gotta cut that damn cornstalk down 
somehow, but it’s a big job. He thinks an thinks an’ then 
he sends for th’ Tie-Cuttin’ Finn an’ says — 

“Tie-Cuttin Finn? Never heerd tell on him?” 

He clicked his tongue in disgust and sighed. 

“Well this here Finn, he was th’ best broad-axe man 
Paul ever had, but he ain’t quite so good as Paul wants at 
that, him havin’ a big tie contrack. So Paul he gits an 
idea. He rigs a thirty-pound broad-axe on each of th’ 
Finn’s feet like skates. ” He drew up a foot to illustrate. 
“Straps ’em on good an’ solid. Then th’ Finn goes into 
th’ cedar swamp. He goes up a tree, usin’ these here 
axes for climbers, scores goin’ up, gits to th’ top, slides 
down, hewes two faces on th’ way an’ knocks off a tie 
every eight feet — ” 

Taylor did not laugh with the others. He looked again 
at the clock. It was quarter after one. 

“Well Paul, he calls in th’ Tie-Cuttin’ Finn an’ tells 
him to pick out fifty of th’ likeliest-lookin’ broad-axe 
men in camp, which th’ Finn does. He takes ’em into th’ 
swamp an’ fer a month he teaches ’em ontil he’s got 
fifty of th’ best axe-men that ever spit on a hand. 

“Then one mornin’ bright an’ early they all come 
out, axes all sharp, stripped to their shirts an’ lines up 
roun’ th’ cornstalk. 

“Paul he gits the dinner horn from th’ cook shanty — 
Ever hear ’bout that dinner horn? Nope? Huh! Well 
she’s a good one. Has to have a good one y’ know, ’cause 
he runs a big camp an’ th’ men git scattered a long ways 
by dinner time, but nobody but Paul can blow this here 


TIMBER 


221 


horn. The sound carries all right when Paul blows her, 
but it’s kinda expensive ’cause every time he blows he 
knocks down ’bout ’leven acres of standin’ timber. 

“Well, Paul, he gits these here men all strung ’round 
th’ cornstalk an’ he blows th’ horn for ’em to start. They 
slam into th’ stalk good an’ heavy, fifty of ’em, each 
sinkin’ his axe to th’ eye — but — ” He sighed and 
paused. “You see, their choppin’ don’t do a dime’s 
worth of good, ’cause this here damn stalk grows so fast 
that they can’t hit twice in th’ same place to git a chip 
off.” 

Joe scowled and rubbed his chin. 

“Bad,” he muttered. “Pret’ bad, with Congress 
waitin’ fer to arrest Paul an’ ruin his reppetation. 

“So Paul, he does some more thinkin’. Now you 
recalled ’bout Paul’s big saw mill. Pret’ good-sized mill. 
Right fair mill. She’d cut a million feet an hour. To keep 
this mill in logs he had to build a pret’ good railroad. 
Light steel wouldn’t stand his trains ’cause they had to 
load fairly heavy, so Paul had some special steel made, 
mite heavier ’n anythin’ they’d ever used loggin’. Each 
rail was a quarter-mile long an’ a foot square on th’ end. 

“Now this road, good as she was, couldn’t quite keep 
th’ mill in logs. The’ was a Scotchman engineer on th’ 
loggin’ train an’ he used to roll ’em in pret’ fast, but 
Paul he ain’t satisfied, an’ he laces into th’ Scotchman one 
day an’ tells it to him good an’ hard an’ says to put on a 
little steam, wood’s cheap, an’ travel some. That made 
the engineer mad — ’cause he thought he’d been doin’ 
pret’ good. So when he goes out with his empties to th’ 
bankin’ ground he opens her wide an’ she goes so damn 
fast that th’ draft picks up th’ steel an’ ties an’ rolls ’em 


222 


TIMBER 


up behint an’ over th’ way car ontil railroad, train an’ 
everythin’ ’s junk. 

“Now that air railroad she was Paul’s first big failure; 
gettin’ rid of this here cornstalk ’s th’ other. So he 
natterly thinks ’bout both, an’ that gives him ’n idee. 
He goes over to this here junk pile an’ commences pullin’ 
her apart. 

“Quite a job, with them quarter -mile rails, but by-an’- 
by he gits a few pulled loose an’ straightened out an’ 
puts ’em over his shoulder an’ walks back to camp. 

“That evenin’ atter supper he takes a look at th’ corn- 
stalk, which is a right good-sized stalk by then. He takes 
these here rails an’ knots ’em together, strings ’em aroun’ 
th’ stalk, ties ’em up tight in a knot an’ stands back an’ 
says: ‘There, durn ye, pinch yerself off!’ Which the stalk 
perceeds to do.” 

Harris relighted his cigar with a hand that trembled. 

“Well she pinches all right. They can hear her crackin’ 
over in Wisconsin. 

“Then Paul he thinks to hisself, what ’ll happen when 
she comes down? 

“So he sends fer his surveyor an’ puts him out ’n th’ 
brush with his transit to watch th’ top of this here corn- 
stalk. They strings a telephone line out to th’ place an’ 
th’ surveyor camps there. Th’ stalk keeps growin’ an’ 
snappin’ an’ atter a while th’ surveyor he telephones an’ 
says she’s commencin’ to sag. 

“Paul he sends his men out into th’ clearin’ to warn 
th’ settlers an’ gets ’em all outen th’ way. Everybody’s 
pret’ much excited. 

“ ‘She’s commencin’ to sag somethin’ bad,’ telephones 
th’ surveyor. Everybody gits away back — an’ looks — 


TIMBER 


223 


They can see her quiver an’ quake an’ by-’n-by they can 
hear her top whistlin’.” 

He spat. 

“Yes, sir, they heerd that top whistlin’ four days afore 
she hit th’ ground !” 

He stopped with a nod and tightening of his lips. Harris 
rocked with laughter. Taylor, though, was very serious 
and looked again at the clock. A half hour had passed. 

“Four days, ” repeated Joe, seriously. “An’ no wonder! 
Why, Paul, he figgered out that about a mile ’n half of 
that air top had frazzeled out on th’ way dow r n ! 

“They went out to look tlT thing over at ter she was safe 
down an’ up pret’ well toward what was left of th’ 
top end they found ’n ear of corn. Pret’ sizeable ear, this 
here was, and it was druv straight into th’ ground by th’ 
stalk. 

“Paul he scratched his head an’ thinks he better git 
that air ear out. So he goes gits th’ mule team ’nd builds 
a stump puller. He has to build a pret’ big stump puller 
all right. He rigs her up good an’ strong an’ hooks on th’ 
mules an’ pulls on that cob an’ when he gits her up he has 
’n eighty foot well, all cobbled up with kernels.” 

Harris leaned against the door and his eyes swam with 
tears as he laughed. 

Joe looked at Taylor and the young man nodded — 
after he had glanced into the street — toward the court 
house. At that Black Joe got up and drew a paper of 
tobacco from his pocket. 

“Joe, that’s a good yarn,” said Harris, drawing a 
handkerchief to wipe his eyes. 

“Yup, Paul was quite a lad. He never let anythin* 
interfere with his work.” 


224 


TIMBER 


“More than I’ve done,” sliding his watch to a big palm. 
“I’m overdue — a half hour!” 

Still chuckling, making brief farewells, he departed. 
Joe and Taylor watched him swing along the board side- 
walk. They could see the supervisors through the open 
window of their room — and one figure was in the street, 
the figure that John had seen as Joe brought his story to 
a finish: Humphrey Bryant, walking slowly from the 
court house toward the Banner office, slowly but not 
like an old man — with a spring in his stride, and his thin 
plume of white hair waved triumphantly above his scalp. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Humphrey Bryant had not eaten, had not left his 
desk. He watched the supervisors trail toward the 
Commercial House with Jim Harris in the lead, watched 
the town merchants one by one lock their doors and go 
home for dinner — and then sat there, staring blankly at 
the picture of Pingree on the blue calcimined wall. 

He was not conscious that so much time passed. Time 
seemed to speed that day, drawing events after it in a 
dizzying swirl, portentous events, carrying great conse- 
quence for him and Helen Foraker beneath their surface, 
and he roused with a start as Sim Burns strolled along 
the walk on his way back from dinner. Wes Hubbard 
was behind him and Art Billings and the others. Finally 
Henry Wales, fretting with his pale cigar, hastened along 
as the clock on Bryant’s office wall struck one. 

The old man rose and went to the door. Through the 
open court house window he saw the supervisors moving 
about their room — he watched and waited. Jim Harris 
did not emerge from the poolroom. 

Bareheaded he crossed the street, breath a trifle short, 
heart thumping. 

The aimless chatter of the group frazzled to a tell-tale 
silence as the editor appeared in the doorway. He stood 
a moment, counting them. Each township was repre- 
sented. He stepped inside, drawing the door shut behind 
him and stood with his hand on the knob. His white, 
225 


226 


TIMBER 


stiff-bosomed shirt was open at the throat, his vest 
unbuttoned. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, and bowed. 

They were all old men, except Sim; some white headed, 
some grizzled; some withered, a few portly; of the old 
order in body and thought. 

Wes Hubbard took his feet from the chairman’s desk. 

“Mornin’ Hump’,” he said and picked up the gavel. 
“Lookin’ for a piece for th’ Banner f” 

There was something malicious in the casual question. 

“Yes, for the Banner — perhaps.” 

“Ought to make a good write-up. We’re goin’ to 
resolute for a new court house an’ for lots of roads this 
afternoon. ” 

“That’s commendable. We’ve managed to stagger 
along with the old tin shack and our sand trails for quite 
a while. 

“You think, do you gentlemen, that the electorate will 
vote the bonds?” 

“Sure thing!” It was Sim Burns, rather defensive in 
his manner. “Why shouldn’t they?” 

The editor shrugged. His blue eyes were very bright, 
but unsmiling; very quick in their darting from face to 
face, but not shifting — just prying, roving, alive and alert. 

“There’s only one thing to stand in the way,” he said, 
“Taxes.” 

Wes Hubbard rose. 

“I guess that th’ people understand pretty well that 
th’ country’s goin’ to be better fixed for funds.” 

“That’s why I came over, gentlemen, to ask, as a repre- 
sentative of the press, about the revised assessments.” 

There was a stir in the group; men drew closer together. 


TIMBER 


227 


“That'll come out when th’ boards of review meet.” ■ 

“And maybe it'll come out sooner!” There was a snap 
to the old editor's voice; he moved a step nearer the faces 
which had slowly formed in a group before him. The atti- 
tudes of lounging had given way to a tensity — like the 
tensity of his own manner. “I want to know who's going 
to pay the bill.” 

Some one coughed. Henry Wales sniffed and eyed his 
cigar. 

“ That's all fixed, Hump, ” Hubbard said. “ There won't 
be any hardship for anybody that ain't got it cornin'.” 

“Let's understand one another, gentlemen. Let’s get 
down to brass tacks. I understand that the valuation on 
Foraker's Folly is to be raised until the sum realized will 
pay interest and create sinking funds for all these bonds. ” 

Sim Burns snapped: “No more 'n fair! No more 'n 
legal; I've only followed the law in makin' my assess- 
ment. ” 

The editor's blue eye whipped to him. “ Only followed 
what law?” 

“State tax law,” color mounting, lower lip drooping. 
“You stood by Foraker; you stood by his girl. You 
believed they could grow timber out there an' they have. 
Now do you want to stand between 'em an’ th' bill for 
that privilege? Want to be a party to defrauding the 
people of this county out of their just tax income?” 

There was menace in him as he stepped forward, fists 
half clenched. Others glanced at him as though his 
challenge gave them assurance. 

“You, Burns, and all of you know my attitude on the 
matter of taxing timber. There's no need of discussing 
that. I’m here to discuss a matter of justice.” 


228 


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c 

“ Justice ! ” scoffed Sim. “ Justice? You think it’s fair for 
a big rich property like that to get out of paying its share?” 

“I think it is illegal for any large interest to shirk its 
share of public expense. I think it is criminal for tax 
officers to aid and abet any interest in avoiding its just 
burden. That is why I have come — on a matter of 
justice. ” 

He moved forward again and drew his pudgy figure up. 
His face was flushed, his eyes flashing cold fire. He seemed 
to grow in stature as his voice mounted. The old man 
poised there, face to face with Burns, and then let his gaze 
travel the group, as though finished w r ith the one man. 
The silence was acute. A fly, bumping against the window, 
sounded large in it. There was portent in the gesture of 
Bryant’s half-lifted hand. 

He relaxed suddenly, and a smile ran down into his 
beard. 

“Understand me, gentlemen, I came not as a trouble 
maker, not as a kicker against improvements, but on a 
simple matter of simple justice. The people of this 
country understand your plan thoroughly. Foraker’s 
Folly is to pay the bill for these improvements. Chief 
Pontiac Power and Jim Harris are to benefit by them 
directly, and the people are to benefit by boasting a new 
public building. 

“I want to call your attention to this fact; Chief 
Pontiac Power, all its holdings, its three dams, its three 
power plants, its flowage rights, its unused key positions, 
its monopoly of the power possibilities in this country, 
its subsidiary, the Harris Development Company, is 
assessed at a valuation of two hundred thousand.” 

He paused and his eyes sought the face of Art Billings 


TIMBER 


229 


which had paled suddenly and who seemed to shrink from 
Bryant’s scrutiny. 

“ I haven’t heard you making a noise about raising the 
assessment of Chief Pontiac in your township to a cash- 
value basis, Art!” 

Even the fly was silent. 

The blue eyes swept the faces again and the editor’s 
voice rose a bit, not quite steady, as he strove to hold his 
anger down. 

“ I haven’t heard any of you objecting to the low assess- 
ment of this corporation, which, as any of us know, will 
run over six million dollars cash value! More, market 
value! I’ve heard a mighty roar against Foraker’s Folly; 
I haven’t heard a whisper against Chief Pontiac — I’m 
not going to discuss this; I’m not going to ask you why?” 
a ripple of relief ran over the group. “I’m going to tell 
you why!” 

His voice had leaped to a roar and his hand went 
quickly to his pocket, bringing forth the worn notebook. 
The silence was painful as he drew down his spectacles 
from his forehead and fumbled the pages. 

“I have here memoranda which interests me, and will 
interest you, and will interest perhaps — perhaps, the 
electorate, perhaps the tax commission, perhaps the 
prosecuting attorney of this county if properly urged by 
the governor of our great state.” 

He looked into the book. 

“I read at random: At the top of the page, I find this 
date: January 4, 1915. Below is written the name of 
Oliver Burns, uncle of the present supervisor from Lincoln 
township, veteran member of this body until his death. 
In the next column is written the time, 1.32 p.m.; which 


230 


TIMBER 


means at that moment he entered the Commercial House 
and ascended the stairs to the room of Jim Harris, local 
representative of a great corporation.” He paused, for 
his throat had tightened. He looked about almost fiercely 
but the amazement in those faces gave him strength. 

“ I turn the pages. The date is August 9, 1917. The first 
name is again Oliver Burns; the hour is 9.16 a.m. and 
he went up to the same place, up the same stairs to the 
same room, still occupied by Jim Harris, local representa- 
tive of Chief Pontiac Power. 

“The next notation is 9.47 a.m. and the name opposite 
is Wes Hubbard; the next is twenty minutes to eleven 
and the name is Art Billings. The next was Oren Culman 
at eleven four, and so on. 

“Try another page: March 5, 1918. Art Billings was 
early, at 8.22. Until after eleven Mr. Harris had no 
callers, but he remained in his room waiting, looking 
through the window now and then. At three minutes 
past eleven Wes Hubbard went up the stairs, at 11.22 
Oliver Burns, and at one minute to noon, Oren Culman. 

“And so on, with little change, until April 6, 1920 when 
a new name appears: that of Sim Burns.” 

He stopped, jaw trembling. 

“You are all there, gentlemen, on every page — ” 

Those who watched thought that the quivering of his 
jaw and the tremor in his voice was the unsteadiness of 
righteous wrath; but it was not that, not by far. It was 
misgiving. Like a stud-poker player he let them look 
at the high cards which lay face up — but the one in the 
hole — the one on which he was risking his stack, was an 
unknown quantity to him — and for all he knew it might 
be a marked card and recognizable to these men. 


TIMBER 


231 


Slowly he closed the book and stood with it between 
his palms. No word of reply came for an instant and then 
Sim Burns spoke. 

“You’ve mentioned my uncle’s name.” His voice was 
thin. “You’d accuse the dead of takin’ Chief Pontiac’s 
money? You’d slander the dead?” 

The editor’s heart pelted at his ribs. He had wrung it 
from them! 

“The dead? Aye, the dead! And the living, equally 
smirched, will stand for it!” he cried, and his hand clutch- 
ing the notebook lashed out in a furious gesture as he 
stepped backward to fling open the door. 

“Two columns of these notes I’ve read, gentlemen. Do 
you want me to read the third? Do you want me to 
shout down these halls the exact value of your thirty 
pieces of silver? The price that Chief Pontiac has paid 
and that you have accepted so the people of this country 
might be defrauded to help a great corporation?” 

A movement, sharp and quick and certain as Wes 
Hubbard skipped from the chairman’s platform. 

“Shut up, Bryant!” he panted. “Hold your mouth!” 

His voice was husky and he trembled as he backed 
against the door to close it. 

The old man did not look at him. He pushed his spec- 
tacles upward and his eyes firm, assured and penetrating, 
ran from face to face slowly before he turned to look at the 
chairman who stood there, pale and shrunken. 

“If I don’t choose to shut up? What then?” 

“I’ll — we’ll — ,” stammered Hubbard, floundering 
for a threat. 

“You’ll go, every last one of you, to a larger, finer 
building than this; but it’s a tighter building, more 


TIMBER 


232 ' 

imposing than any your bonds would have built; and as 
for roads — you may build them with your hands, you 
blackguards!” 

The epithet popped from his lips and he moved forward. 
This brought him in line with the window and from the 
poolroom he saw Jim Harris emerge, hat back, face red 
with laughter. 

“We understand one another,” he said, halting. “I 
came on an errand of justice. I am leaving now. If Chief 
Pontiac wants to bear its equitable share of taxation 
for the fruits that it will enjoy, I have no argument. Chief 
Pontiac Power does not want to be fair, gentlemen. 
You’ve put yourself in the hands of rascals. Vote these 
resolutions this afternoon that mean the ruin of Foraker’s 
Folly — and, ” he gave the notebook just the suggestion 
of a brandish. 

“Otherwise, the matter of the value of your pieces 
of silver — may wait. ” 

He went from the room with no further word and his feet 
echoed on the light boards of the stairway as he descended. 
Until he was gone from the building, no man stirred. 

“Here comes Jim,” rasped Art Billings. 

“I move we adjourn!” This in a whisper from Sim 
Burns. 

“You can’t adjourn; we ain’t been called to order,” 
mumbled Hubbard. 

“To hell with that!” cried Sim. “He’s got it on us, 
th’ old basterd! Do you all want to rot in jail? Clear 
out before Harris gets here or you’ll be hoppin’ from the 
fry in’ pan into th’ coals!” 

> They went with a thundering of feet down the stairway 
and scattered in the dusty thoroughfare of Pancake. 


TIMBER 


233 


Jim Harris stopped and watched them go. 

“All through?” he asked Henry Wales. 

“Through — er — you see, Jim — ” 

Briefly and nervously the landlord told his guest the 
story, and Harris’ face darkened. He made no threats 
then, for he knew that like mercy, corruption touches 
him who gives and him who receives. He stood still, 
gazing blankly at the office of the Blueberry Banner. 

Hump Bryant was at the telephone, tongue roving his 
lip, eyes smiling happily as he listened to the glad response 
of Helen Foraker. 

“ How’d it happen? ” he asked. “ Lord knows — I guess 
He had a hand in it, my dear — ” 


CHAPTER XXII 


Taylor and Black Joe were back in the forest by late 
afternoon. Helen was gone. 

They went first to the men’s shanty where Joe removed 
the worn and shabby suit he kept for such a rare event 
as a trip to Pancake and was struggling into overalls 
and a work shirt when John, importuned by Bobby to 
come and fix his see-saw, started toward the big house. 
Joe paused in his dressing. 

“Say!” John stopped. Joe cleared his throat unneces- 
sarily. “Tell her,” he growled, “that I went to town 
an’ that I’m back.” 

His voice was gruffer than ever, but John smiled as he 
walked away. Joe, who would not even speak to the 
sour Aunty May, sending her this trivial message of his 
well being! 

He busied himself with the board and horse which made 
the children’s teeter and saw Aunty May come to the 
door, mixing bowl on her hip, and glance at the children 
briefly, and look at length toward the men’s shanty. She 
did this again and a third time; on her next appearance 
she came outside. 

“Helen went to town,” she volunteered. 

“Yes?” 

“Hump Bryant telephoned some news that made her 
glad. She’s gone to bring him out for Sunday with the 
children. They don’t see their Grandpa Humpy much.” 

234 


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235 


Taylor worked on. “You've been away most all day,” 
she said. He had, he admitted. “Your logs most cut?” 
They were. “ I s’pose you have to go to town a lot, now. ” 
Yes, he had been in today. 

She talked with the manner of one whose mind is not 
just on what she says, and her eyes went from time to time 
to the men’s shanty. 

“That’s one advantage of bein’ an ornery man. You 
c’n pick up an’ git out when you will.” Taylor remon- 
strated that men, at times, had obligations. “But when 
you’re free you gen’ally can find some one to bum with — 
Now a woman, she don’t like to go to town alone.” 

And so on, edging close to the question which was 
uppermost in her mind, inspecting Taylor’s work with an 
interest that was obviously assumed. John, watching, 
finally said: 

“We were lucky today. Caught the down freight and 
got a ride back to Seven Mile with Dr. Pelly.” 

“Oh, so you didn’t go alone?” 

“No, Joe and I went in.” 

“An’ three of you rode in that one-seated car of the 
doctor’s?” 

“Plenty of room. Yes we all came back — ” 

Forthwith, she departed for the kitchen with the alacrity 
of relief and Taylor chuckled. He heard her singing a 
doleful hymn in a terrible contralto. 

Both funny and heartbreaking, it was, as Helen had 
said. Sour Aunty May, crusty Black Joe; they would not 
speak, but the first thought of each was for the other’s 
welfare. 

Humphrey Bryant came back with Helen that night 
and John joined them and listened to the old editor’s 


236 


TIMBER 


modest recital of what had taken place in the court house. 
He saw Helen’s relief, detected the justified pride that 
the old man took in thwarting Harris’ carefully conceived 
plan. He listened, smiling, on the verge of telling the 
part he had played and which no one knew but Black Joe 
— the most important part in that day’s victory — when 
Helen checked her laughter and sighed. 

“It’s only the skirmish. The real fight is to come.” 

And then they talked seriously of what awaited their 
wits and courage. Again Taylor detected that unyielding 
temper in the girl, stirred against any man or influence 
that menaced her forest. It was, tonight, as though Jim 
Harris and the others sought her very life; she planned 
and talked that tensely. 

Ezam Grainger had gone, the new bank cashier, one 
young Wilcox, had arrived the day before. Ezam’s mind 
had been so taken up with his wife’s trouble that he had 
no time for the troubles of others. He had been sorry, 
but he could do nothing for Helen himself surely, he 
thought, the new man would renew the mortgage; per- 
haps later he might aid himself, if help were still needed. 

But that day Helen Foraker’s chief ally had defied 
Pontiac Power and the corporation would go out of its 
way not at all to help carry on the dream of eternal pine. 
Humphrey was going down state the first of the week 
to hunt an investor. Outwardly he was optimistic, but 
he could not cover his misgiving and when Helen indicated 
the headlines in a Detroit paper heralding the sharp 
credit stringency, his pleasant assurance lost its ring 
entirely. 

,l They talked for a long time and when Taylor went out 


TIMBER 


237 


Helen followed him down the steps. Bryant's eyes 
followed, too, with a smile not untouched by sadness. 

Sunday. 

The children, one at either hand, drew Grandpa Humpy 
away to inspect a nest of hatching chicks and John, 
beside Helen, strolled down the river to sit on the bank 
and finally stretch out beside her on the needles and 
stare up into the pine crowns and talk — rather con- 
strainedly. 

Last night he had intended to tell her of his father’s 
plan; he had put it off because of lack of opportunity. 
This morning the flush of yesterday’s victory died before 
other grave problems. She had troubles enough; tonight 
he would talk to Rowe. Tomorrow would do — and 
perhaps tonight’s interview would yield the hope that 
this obstacle need not be faced — such was the easier 
way! 

There was their moment of love making when half 
reclining on the sweet needles he held her close to him 
and felt her hand stroking his head and heard her say 
that she needed him, that big as the forest was in her 
reason for living it would be small, now, without this 
other thing which had come into her heart. He wanted 
to blurt out his story of yesterday, of how he had held 
Jim Harris and opened the way for Humphrey’s strategy, 
but he was not given to boasting; he was reticent; better 
to wait with his tales of allegiance until he could be sure 
that his unthinking enthusiasm, his desire to help her, 
had not brought her face to face with an unbeatable 
enemy. 

They went back together, his elbow touching her side. 


238 


TIMBER 


Goddard, on lookout in Watch Pine — for the fair days 
had dried the country and distant brush fires sent up 
wraiths of pale smoke — saw them come as he had seen 
them go. His hand clutched the battered field glasses 
and his knee against the rail of the crow’s nest trembled. 

Philip Rowe had arrived that morning and was in his 
room at dusk when John’s knuckles fell on the door. He 
received his caller, deferential, suave, courteous, but now 
there was open irony in his manner and voice as he bade 
Taylor be seated beside the table which was littered with 
reports that Tolman had made, for the cruiser had gone 
back to the forest after that telephone conversation with 
old Luke and covered its most remote parts thoroughly. 

No words were bandied this time. Taylor came to the 
point at once. 

“Evidently I started the thing that I was trying to 
make impossible.” 

Rowe shrugged and smoked deliberately. 

^ “Your father never did fancy long-time investments; 
and he’s a bit touchy on any matter of conservation. It 
doesn’t sound practical to him.” 

“Did you tell him what I told you about the work that 
this pine represents, about the fact that a girl has been 
carrying the load alone?” 

He put that question sharply and Rowe’s gaze locked 
with his; the lip over his cigar moved slightly. 

“I told him everything you said, Taylor,” defensively. 
“Are you thinking that I deliberately caused trouble 
between you and your father?” 

There was bravado in that question, a show of fearless 
frankness, which did not sound real. Quickly Taylor 


TIMBER 


239 


reflected; Rowe had been close to his father and Marcia 
Murray more than once intimated that his position might 
be dangerous. Memory of those hints stirred dormant 
suspicion and as he looked into the glitter of the eyes that 
clung to his John believed that he had grounds for that 
misgiving. 

“No I don't think that, yet, Rowe.” 

“Meaning that you think that you will think it!” 
laughing. 

“Perhaps.” 

Rowe laughed again. 

“There's no need of your losing your temper because 
you made your father lose his,” he said. “You’ve a good 
opportunity here yet. You and your father don’t think 
alike on a great many things; there’s no point on which 
you could differ any more than on this pine deal. No use 
trying to impress you with his appetite for Michigan pine. 
You understand that as well as I do. Perhaps there is one 
thing about him you don’t realize and that is that when it 
comes to a deal involving something he wants and which 
somebody else wants, too, he’s a steam roller! He has 
the money, he has the determination, and he has — 
damned little regard for what other people want. 

“He wants this pine. We’ve looked it over carefully, 
not only the timber but its backing. That backing is 
damned shaky. Taylor, I understand there was a little 
inside political excitement yesterday and Miss Foraker 
won. Well, that’s only a stop-gap. These fellows have 
the law with them and in the end, which isn’t very far 
away, they’ll get her. 

“There’s another thing. This bank holds a mortgage 
for twenty thousand on a part of the forest and there’s 


240 


TIMBER 


no chance of their renewing it. She can’t get the money 
anywhere else unless she’s got better credit than most of 
us, and the foreclosure will pretty well upset her scheme 
for logging as you outlined it the other day. And there 
are other things, several — ” He paused and eyed his 
cigar. “ You’ve never liked me very well, Taylor; I’ve 
known it. I’m now in a position to make you or break 
you as far as your future with your father is concerned. 
I have full authority to act for him on this matter and 
if you doubt it, try to get in touch with him either by 
telephone or by a trip home.” He paused to let that 
sink in. 

“I don’t want to do anything that’s unfair.” He eyed 
the tendril of cigar smoke. Some one entered the next 
room. Muffled voices, which neither of them heeded. 
“If you want to come in on this deal with us, see it from 
your father’s way and help, it may do a lot to re-establish 
you in his favor. Just now, you’re not worth a white chip. 
He has a pretty good reason to believe, too, that you’re 
somewhat prejudiced by your interest in Miss Foraker.” 

His manner was stinging and John rose. 

“We’ll leave Miss Foraker out of this, ” he said sharply. 

Rowe’s brows lifted. The voices in the next rooom 
broke off. 

“What influence she has on me is none of your affair 
and none of my father’s. We’re talking a timber deal; 
not something personal. The girl concerns only me. It 
was my idea and I am going to insist on having things my 
way if I go in at all. 

“I came up here, I saw the timber and its possibilities. 
Why, there’s money in it, Rowe, lots of money for my 
father and for me! The fact that Miss Foraker is in a 


TIMBER 


241 


pinch gives us a chance to be in on the deal at all. If she' 
weren’t pressed for money we’d never get in. I want to 
do this, Rowe, as much as my father ever wanted to cut 
pine in his life. I can’t do it alone. I need his help and 
understanding. 

“You can help me in this if you will. You have the 
authority to act for my father. You’re on the ground. 
You have cruiser’s report on the values. I make this 
sporting proposition to you: Help me out, interest my 
father in the plan I’ve put up to you and we’ll pull together 
in a combination that can’t lose. 

“The timber’s there; you can’t get away from that; 
she’s grown it to saw-log size. She’s done it alone and 
she’s reached the end of her rope. Look at the thing 
from my point of view. Get behind me with my father’s 
money and I’ll stake everything I hold dear on the bet 
that we’ll clean up.” 

He stopped rather breathless. Rowe cleared his throat. 
From the other room the sound of footsteps, a closing door. 
Men went down the hall. 

“And suppose I tell you I am not interested in seeing 
it your way any more than your father is?” 

“Then it will be up to me to fight you both!” 

A gleam of triumph swept Rowe’s face. “You mean 
that? That you will fight your father in this thing?” 

“You heard me!” 

“And you want me to tell him this?” leaning forward 
in his chair. “You want me to tell him that you will 
actually fight him? That you will not even stand aside?” 

Color flooded Taylor’s face. “Tell him just that,” he 
muttered. “Tell him that I have made my choice, that 
I stand by the forest. I don’t relish fighting him — but 


242 


TIMBER 


I’m ready to go the limit. That’s final, Rowe. That’s all 
I have to say.” 

The other rose and put down his cigar. 

“It will interest him,” he said ironically. “It will 
interest him more than anything has since you first 
mentioned the timber. I — ” his eyes ran over Taylor’s 
face craftily. “I will go back tonight with your 
message. Beyond a doubt you will hear of it — and 
before long.” 

They stood silent a moment. 

“Then we understand each other,” said Taylor and 
with no more took his hat and walked out. He went 
down the stairs, down the steps and along the walk. He 
did not notice the two figures on the hotel verandah, 
two men who stopped talking when he came out and 
watched him go. He was in a swirl of impulses. Go to 
Detroit and face his father? No, that would do no good. 
Stay here, confide in Helen, summon Humphrey Bryant 
and plan their campaign of resistance? Or think it out 
himself? There was time — and he again shrank from 
the ordeal of making Helen know what he had brought 
upon her by trying to help. 

In his room Phil Rowe lighted a fresh cigar, looked at 
his reflection in the faulty mirror and smiled. 

“That makes it very simple.” He laughed nervously. 
“John Taylor — as an heir, you’re a wash-out — and 
as for this other, I’ll strike so quick you’ll not get your 
i breath!” 

On the verandah Milt Goddard leaned closer to Jim 
Harris. 

\“I knew it all along, ” he said, thickly, watching Taylor. 


TIMBER 


243 


“I knew he wasn’t on the level and didn’t mean any good 
by her.” 

“ Course, it’s none of my business, Milt, but I never 
like to see a square girl get taken in. Miss Foraker don’t 
like me, thinks I don’t like her, but maybe she’ll wake 
up and find out who her friends are — some day. ” 

He sighed in satisfaction and half closed his eyes and 
scarcely heard Goddard’s heavy threats, made against 
Taylor. 

All last night Harris had lain awake, trying to deter- 
mine just what had struck his plan yesterday to knock it 
into a cocked hat. Humphrey Bryant had been the 
agency, yes, but there was something else, he felt, some- 
thing beneath the surface. 

His day had been replete with serious conversations. 
First had been one with Rowe in which names and figures 
and details were discussed. Then he had summoned 
the boy Lucius and talked gravely to him — so gravely 
and earnestly that the lad’s eyes bulged and when he left 
Jim’s room he w r alked with the bearing of one who is 
excited by great responsibility. And then he talked with 
Henry Wales, his good nature giving way to hardness; 
Sim Burns came to see him and they were locked up for 
an hour. 

These conferences were followed by a gossipy journey 
up and down the street ending in the poolroom where the 
proprietor laughed with him over Black Joe’s Bunion 
story; but in the midst of the laugh Harris sobered and 
smoked a moment and asked questions — about Black 
Joe’s coming, about young Taylor; and when he learned 
that they had asked about his cigars and his habits the 
other man said: 


TIMBER 


244 


“That Taylor’s a funny cuss, ain’t he? Yesterday 
he seemed more interested in the clock than he did in what 
Joe had to say.” 

“Yes, he — huh? The clock!” Harris stared blankly 
at the other a moment and then picked the band from 
his cigar carefully. 

“By the way, Jim, what’s this story about the Foraker girl 
gettin’ Hump’ to sit on the road and court house plans?” 

“All rot! There’s a kink in the tax law they brought 
up,” he lied, “and they’re tryin’ to dodge taxes, but 
they’ll never get away with it; not while I’m interested 
to see the country prosper.” 

“Dirty work, eh? Is that so! Always knew Hump was 
a nut, but never s’posed he was crooked.” 

“No, none of you ever did. He makes a dog’s hind leg 
look like a straight line. But wait — you wait. Some- 
thin’s going to drop!” 

Shortly thereafter he walked out and as he passed the 
Banner office he looked at the litter behind the dusty 
windows malevolently. 

“You’re one, Hump’ Bryant — and young Taylor 
makes two — I’ll get you as sure as water runs down hill!” 

It was dusk when John and Bryant and Goddard drove 
into town. Harris watched them from the hotel verandah, 
studying Milt’s sullen manner toward young Taylor. 
He knew men and motives, did Harris. Little of the bear- 
ing of men escaped him, because frictions were the mate- 
rial with which he could always work. 

Taylor went into the hotel and Goddard came to sit 
beside Harris. Later they also went upstairs, for Harris 
had something important to say to the big woodsman. 
He did not need to say it, however, the long arm of 


TIMBER 


245 


coincidence reached out that evening and drew four men 
together, and through the thin partition Milt Goddard 
heard from Taylor’s own lips all that Harris had wanted 
to tell him. After that they went down to the verandah 
and smoked again — and the work was done. 

Harris smiled contentedly when Goddard walked away 
to join Taylor and drive back to the forest. 

Milt scarcely spoke on the trip, but watched John care- 
fully, patient and planning. He had given an empty 
warning to Helen and now backing for it had fallen, as it 
were, from the sky. He would not strike too quickly! 
He would let this upstart go to the end of his rope and 
bring him up sharply! Helen Foraker would know 
whom she could trust! 

Two long-distance calls went out of Pancake that 
evening, the one to Luke Taylor and the other to Marcia 
Murray at Windigo Lodge, and when they were both 
accomplished Rowe went to drive with Harris. While 
they rolled slowly down the river road Rowe listened, 
rather startled at times, but always reassured by what 
his companion had to say. 

“I’d figured I might have trouble with Milt, but it was 
as easy as kissin’ a pretty girl. For years he’s been sweet 
on her; he’s been green-eyed ever since Taylor got the 
inside track. 

“S’ help me, I didn’t know you and Taylor were 
upstairs! But Goddard stood in my room and heard with 
his own ears the young cub beg you for help — and it 
sounded just like he wanted to cut that pine himself, the 
way he put it! Better than any lie 1 could have thought 
up! Oh-ho, that’s rich!” 


246 


TIMBER 


“But you got him out just in time.” 

“Lord, it had my heart in my throat! I couldn’t hustle 
him out fast enough. I figured any minute the kid ’uld 
blow up and cuss you out. ” 

Further on: 

“But won’t Goddard blow to Miss Foraker?” Rowe 
asked. 

“Hell, maybe Taylor will himself. But there’s a bigger 
chance that Goddard suspects Taylor is on his dad’s side 
and if we can get ’em fighting among themselves, it’ll be 
all down hill and shady. 

“I tell you, Rowe, you don’t want to underestimate the 
kid! He put one over on me Saturday and if we don’t 
scotch him he’ll make more trouble — but he’s gone on 
the girl, and she’s a bug about that pine of hers, and 
Goddard is nuts about her and jealous of Taylor and thinks 
Taylor is tryin’ to force her to sell — and there you are! 

“ The iron is hot, my friend. Better grab your hammer ! ” 

“He thinks I’m going back to Detroit tonight. But 
there’ll be no grass under my feet! I’ll talk to her before 
the dew’s dry in the morning!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 

y 

Philip Howe’s interview with Helen may be divided 
into two parts. The first is unimportant to this narrative. 
Keenly planned, adroitly manceuvered, he brought 
the talk up to the point of values and put his request for 
an option. 

The man had aroused the girl’s distrust from the 
beginning; he came unannounced, he was so low spoken, 
so sure; his eyes were so steady. She listened to what he 
had to say carefully, talking little, telling herself that 
he was trying to draw her out, while he appeared to be 
telling of himself and his wants. 

“The forest isn’t for sale,” she said simply, when he 
stopped. 

“ So we have understood. But circumstances, I thought, 
might have changed your mind. We have all respect for 
your ability, but we realize that the load is becoming too 
much for one of limited resources to carry. ” 

His oily assurance nettled her. 

“I think I am the best judge of that.” 

He shrugged. “For instance, there is the matter of 
taxes.” 

“That is serious, of course, but state legislation is 
pending to remove that obstacle.” 

“ One can never be certain, Miss Foraker, of the promises 
of politicians.” She started to interrupt and said: “Our 
senator, Humphrey Bryant — ” But he went on, looking 
hard into her eyes, “or the tenure of office of — states- 
247 


248 


TIMBER 


men. Besides, you are in debt; your obligations are 
coming due and money is very hard to get on timber now. ” 
His tone was becoming ironical. 

Helen sat back in her chair, feeling weak and dizzy. 
His manner pierced her assurance, his knowledge of her 
affairs shook her self-confidence. 

“You know a great deal about my troubles,” she said 
evenly. 

He bowed his sleek head. “Business men no longer do 
business in the dark, Miss Foraker. ” 

“But, when I tell you that the property isn’t for sale — ” 

“It is not convincing.” Beneath his suavity was some- 
thing terrible, hard and brutal; he no longer smiled, but 
leaned forward intently. 

“You’re a young woman standing alone under a terrible 
burden. You have proven your point, that timber can 
be grown as a crop. That should satisfy you and you 
should let go. Your whole life is before you. It isn’t 
proper that you should slave on here, headed straight 
for ruin. Besides,” drily, “a man of powerful interests 
wants what you have created, is willing to pay you a good 
price, but he wants it. That is what counts with him, that 
is what should count with you, if you are — wise.” 

He lowered his voice on the last word and in its flatness 
was a suggested threat. 

“I am sorry to disappoint him.” 

“He does not know what disappointment is.” When 
her eyes widened at his statement he smiled for the first 
time. “He knows only triumph. He knows only how 
to win!” 

Her color mounted. “Are you threatening me?” 

He spread his hands in a gesture of humility. “Only 


TIMBER 


249 


trying to help you! Asking you to name your figure.” 

“ And threatening me if I refuse!” Her voice was sharp 
and brittle and brought slow color to Rowe’s face. 

“You are too hasty, Miss Foraker.” 

“Too tardy, I should say. I don’t care to sell, Mr. Rowe, 
and I have work to do.” 

She rose. 

The man leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You 
have the courage to refuse a man who has all he wants 
but happiness and sees happiness in the possession of 
your forest?” 

“I haven’t the courage to give you what you want.” 

He looked narrowly at her then. She was beyond his 
experience, neither a grasping old maid, an empty-headed 
girl or the type of business woman he had ever encoun- 
tered; young in years, old in experience and her manner 
carried a front that quite baffled him. 

“I don’t wholly understand you,” he said, as though 
that did not matter, or as though it might flatter her, “and 
perhaps you don’t understand me quite thoroughly. 

“There are other factors involved. You’ve been doing 
a courageous but unwise thing by meddling in politics.” 

“Politics?” 

“The story is coming out about Saturday’s affair in 
the court house — oh, yes, I know about that too ! 
Strangely, people throughout the county do not seem 
to think as you think that their supervisors are all 
scoundrels. They believe that there was black work from 
the other side, from you, Miss Foraker. They believe 
they have lost their chance at improvements through 
the efforts of Senator Bryant on your behalf. Their 
temper is not pleasant.” 


250 


TIMBER 


Helen smiled. “My work is still waiting. All this is 
interesting, but there's no use talking any more. I’m 
sure. ” 

She moved toward the door with the poise and finality 
that sent a wave of anger through Rowe. 

“Miss Foraker — ” 

“Please! Please, don’t try to talk or argue. I don’t 
like your half threats, Mr. Rowe. You don’t frighten 
me — but it is unpleasant. As far as your coming here, 
I have told you that it is useless. I will not sell. ” 

There was challenge in her gesture as she opened the 
screen door. He could not know that her legs were 
unsteady, her heart racing. He moved toward the step, 
hat in his hands, and stood beside her. 

“I will leave you now,” he said. “But I am coming 
again. Had your work been a little less — er — pressing, 
I might have told you more of what you face; but you’re 
not interested anyhow, even though your back is to the 
wall.” 

He went out and did not look back. 

The girl moved to the center of the room and stood 
there, hands at her sides, shoulders a bit slack, looking 
up at her father’s picture above the bowl of wild roses on 
the mantel. 

“Father?” weakly. “Father, I’m frightened! And he 
said I couldn’t keep on and almost makes me — believe 
it!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Milt Goddard saw Philip Rowe’s departure. He 
stepped out of the road to let his car pass and remained 
beside the ruts watching until it was out of sight. 

Rowe could have come but from one place by that road 
and he hastened on to the big house under Watch Pine. 
At the door he paused a moment, irresolute, but when 
he stepped in and saw Helen at her desk his indecision 
departed; her head was bowed, arms about it and he 
saw her shudder. For the space of a dozen breaths he 
stood looking at the girl, sensing her trouble, but in his 
face appeared no sympathy — only joy! 

“ Helen, what is it?” 

He stepped forward as she sat erect and rose, to walk 
toward the mantel. 

“ Nothing,” she replied. 

He was beside her. 

“Don’t put me off!” he said with the manner of one 
who is very certain of himself. “You’ve got to listen, now. 
Maybe if you’d listened when I tried to give you warning 
you wouldn’t have been so upset this morning. ” 

His assurance, his evident knowledge of what had 
happened, startled her. 

“Warning? What do you mean? Do you know what 
has happened?” 

“I don’t know, but I can make a good guess; and to 
make a good guess a man has to know something! ” 

251 


252 


TIMBER 


“You talked to — that man?” 

“To Rowe?” He shook his head. “Fve never spoken 
a word to him, but I know what he was here for.” His 
mouth twisted in a half smile of triumph. The girl stood 
staring at him while voices came to them from the river: 
a sharp command and excited response, as the last of the 
hardwood logs swung round the bend. “He came to 
buy you out, didn’t he?” 

“Yes, I refused, of course, and he went away making 
threats. He knows all about us, Milt!” 

“He knows all about us!” he echoed and laughed 
briefly. “And that’s what I tried to tell you once and you 
wouldn’t listen.” 

She caught her breath. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

Until then he had been tense, almost belligerent; but 
with her last words he relaxed and looked away, because 
he did not want her to detect his gladness. She was begging 
him, now, to reveal what he knew and the groundless 
warning which he had given weeks ago loomed large 
and real; Taylor was a traitor in her camp and he could 
prove it. With Taylor gone, with his own sagacity 
proven — It was a sweet moment for Milt Goddard! 

The averting of his face set eyes toward the river. 
Taylor and two others worked to free a raft from the bend 
in which it had lodged. He saw John’s lithe body put 
its strength to the pike pole, saw the logs sink beneath him 
as he shoved. 

“Once you told me I was your good friend,” he began. 
“You still think that, don’t you, Helen?” 

; “Of course, Milt.” 

“It’s the place of a man to look out for his friends, I 


TIMBER 


25a 


take it. I’ve tried to look out for you, but you couldn’t 
see it that way. You thought it was another thing. ” 

His thumbs were hooked in his belt and he stood very 
close to her. 

“I have worked for you, Helen, I’ve fought for you once 
or twice when it’s been necessary. I’ve took all the 
interest any man could take in this forest when it’s stood 
between you — and me. I told you once that sometimes 
I hated it. That’s right. I do, sometimes. But I’ve kept 
on doing my best for it because you’re right when you 
say it’s your life. Anything that might harm this timber 
would be like somebody layin’ hands on you and that’s why 
I can stand it. If I’ve done that, ain’t it right for you to 
expect that whatever I do is for your good? Ain’t it 
reasonable for me to think that you’d — trust me?” 

“I do trust you, I always — ” 

“Not always,” he interrupted, voice rising slightly. 
“I tried to warn you once, but you put me off. It’s been 
hard enough to keep still and wait for proof when I knew 
the Folly was in danger, but that wasn’t nothin’ compared 
to how hard it was to keep quiet when I knew — after I 
saw him kiss you.” 

One of the girl’s hands went slowly to her breast. 
Goddard’s face darkened. 

“I did see that,” voice trembling. “I looked through 
that window and saw it! I saw him hold you in his arms 
and saw him kiss you, and you — you didn’t drive him 
off as you would any other man who come to strike at 
this pine, which is your life. ” 

“At the pine! Milt?” 

Her hand dropped to his arm and gripped the great' 
muscles. 


254 


TIMBER 


“You told me you didn’t have time to love because 
this forest was your life; you’ve been fooled, Helen, 
fooled by a slick tongue and — and — you’ve been blind 
to what’s goin’ on. You’ve not only risked losin’ what 
you call your life, but you’ve risked breakin’ your heart ! I 
can’t talk the way he can, but I can’t lie the way he can! 
I can’t lie with words, I can’t live a lie! Oh, I knew! I 
knew from the beginnin’. I couldn’t be quite sure then, 
and you wouldn’t believe me — But I am sure now! I 
could tell you the whole story. I could tell you what 
Taylor meant when he kisses you ; I could tell you about 
this man Rowe, but I won’t. Ask him!” He flung out 
an arm toward Taylor in the river. The girl held her 
eyes on his and her lips moved, but no sound came from 
them. “Bring him here,” the woodsman said heavily, 
“and I’ll make him tell you!” 

For a moment she stared into his face. “You want me 
to bring — John Taylor here — to tell me — ?” 

Wretched suspicion ran through her. She was helpless 
to do else than yield to that suspicion before this man who 
was so certain, so convincing. 

“Yes — Now!” 

She went down the steps, crossed the plot of dry sod. 
Her legs were not steady. The one hand was again at 
her breast. She did not consciously move along ; it was as 
though the will of the woodsman prompted every minute 
movement of her body. She reached the path beside the 
river bank and faltered and went on. Taylor, moving 
back to the high-riding hemlock log in the center of the 
freed raft, looked up. He waved and smiled; and then 
stopped still, for even at that distance her weakness was 
evident. 


TIMBER 


255 


The hand, which had been at her breast, rose slowly 
and beckoned. 

“You want me?” he called. 

She tried to speak but could not, so merely nodded 
and beckoned again. 

He spoke to the men with him and as the raft gained 
way planted his pike on bottom and vaulted across the 
strip of water. 

She had stopped, the wind whipping her skirt about 
her legs, making her body appear to sway like an unstable 
stalk. 

“Helen, what is it?” for he saw her blanched face and 
parted lips. 

“Come,” she said, hoarsely, and turned while he was 
yet yards away and started back towards the house. 

“Tell me,” he demanded, taking her arm as he came 
up with her. 

She drew her elbow away from his grasp and looked at 
him as one who, even in half consciousness, shrinks from 
the undesirable. 

“Helen?—” 

They were at the steps. Goddard, glowering at Taylor, 
held back the screen and John followed the girl into the 
room. There they stood, Helen backing against the 
mantel beneath the bowl of roses and her father’s photo- 
graph. Taylor looked from her to Goddard and caught 
the vengeful light in the man’s gray eyes. 

“What’s the trouble,” he asked, evenly, some deep-set 
impulse rising to steel him for a crisis. 

Goddard spoke. 

“There’s been a good deal goin’ on lately to cause 
suspicion. Some of us have had our eyes and ears open.” 


256 


TIMBER 


He could not help grilling Helen for the pain she had 
caused him. “Now it’s come to a show-down, Taylor, and 
we want to ask you a few questions. ” 

His manner was galling. Resentment rose with a flush to 
Taylor’s face, and behind that came fear. 

But he said, outwardly at ease, “Fire away.” 

Goddard looked at Helen, who had not moved. Her 
breast rose and fell quickly and she was chalk white. 

“In the first place you know this man Rowe, and there 
is no use denyin’ it.” 

“I hadn’t thought of denying it,” he said, and looked 
to Helen as though for an explanation of this performance. 
He saw in her face that fright — and a growing something 
— suspicion t 

“I thought so,” jeered Goddard. “Now will you tell 
us what his job is?” 

“He is my father’s private secretary.” 

He saw the girl start sharply, heard an inarticulate 
whisper from her; saw Milt settle himself on one foot 
and smile grimly and nod. 

“Yeah. Working for Luke Taylor. He came up here 
for Luke Taylor, didn’t he? He was here just now on 
your father’s business, wasn’t he?” 

Rowe here! He had lied, then; he had not gone back 
to Detroit last night; the days of grace which John 
expected had not materialized. He had been tricked, 
outguessed! It confused him. 

“Look here, Goddard — Helen. This is something 
I’ve feared for a long time. I’ve been trying to work it 
out for weeks and I’ve kept still because you had enough 
to think about. I can explain if — ” 

“That’s what we want, Taylor, is for you to explain. 


t TIMBER 257 

We know the rest — that you’ve known about this all 
along.” 

The man’s bitterness was a trap closing about him. It 
was bewildering, terrible — it, and his sense of guilt. 
He was in a corner, hedged in by mounting suspicion. 

“ Helen, this isn’t fair!” 

His voice sounded strained. His one hand, uplifted, 
seemed unconvincing, only a gesture of supplication, a 
plea for mercy. 

Helen detected this, saw his confusion contrasted 
with the certain strength of Goddard, and color flooded 
back into her face. The suspicion that had been in her 
eyes gave way to something else, to actual hostility. This 
man was also of that group for which she had no charity. 

Taylor read that. His heart faltered and the hand sank 
slowly, but as it went down something rose within him: 
Pride. He had been dismayed, shaken, frightened, terror- 
struck by the fact that she suspected him of — Ah, he knew 
what suspicions his indecision could nourish! And now 
this other thing surged up, this pride, which would not 
let him beg. They had snatched at conclusions; he had 
made his mistake, but they would not give him opportu- 
nity to clear himself. She would not believe him innocent 
of wrong intent, she would not trust him. 

“Yes, I will tell you why he is here,” he said quietly. 
“My father sent him here to try to buy this forest.” 

“And how’d he happen to come?” Goddard advanced 
closer with his question. “Did you send for him?” 

“I did not send for him.” 

“ Sure of that? You had nothing to do with his coming 
here?” 

“I — I had everything to do with it. I told my father 


258 


TIMBER 


about this timber, but I did not ask either of them to come 
here. ” 

He knew that his answer sounded like an evasion even 
before Goddard turned to nod at the girl. 

“You’re wrong,” Taylor cried out, moving forward 
impetuously, looking from one to the other. “You’re all 
wrong; you’re misjudging me, you’re not giving me a 
chance!” 

Something like hope, he thought, leaped into the girl’s 
face, but Goddard interrupted thunderingly : 

“Chance? What chance did you give Helen, here?” 

“Every ch — ” 

“No chance at all! You brought Rowe here, you let 
him bring in his cruiser and go over the place and you 
covered it up. You let him go to Detroit and talk it over 
with your father. You waited for him to get back yester- 
day with his answer. You — ” 

“You’re wrong, I tell you!” 

“ Shut up ! ” Drunk with the sense of dominion, Goddard 
brooked no interruption. “You went to Pancake yester- 
day. You knew Rowe was there. You went to his room 
in the hotel and talked with him. You want your own 
way in this deal; you told him that and I heard you; you 
ain’t fooled me. I’ve watched every crooked move you’ve 
made. ‘There’s money in it,’ you said, ‘for my father and 
me. The fact that Miss Foraker is in a pinch gives us a 
chance to get in on the deal. If she weren’t pressed for 
money we’d never get in.’ 

“You said that, Taylor, and you said you wanted this 
as much as your father ever wanted to cut pine in his life. 
You begged Rowe to help you out. Begged him to get 
behind you with your father’s money. And you argued 


TIMBER 


259 


him over. He was here today to buy and lie knows the 
mess Helen’s in — because you told him, because you 
told the things she told you, you snake!” 

He had said those things. His own words repeated by 
Goddard, pelted in on his consciousness, battering down 
the strength that had prompted him to admit everything 
before coming out with the explanation; his words, con- 
fused and rendered him helpless. 

Again he turned to the girl. “ Helen, do you believe — ” 

But his golden moment had passed. The pride which 
had held him quiet to take punishment and emerge with 
an explanation and clean hands had robbed him of the 
opportunity to clear himself. He had stood quiet; he 
had made no denial and now as he looked at the girl he 
saw only the tight set of her mouth, the barrier of her 
searching stare. She would not speak! She damned him 
with her silence! She had whispered love to him but in this 
moment she had no faith! 

Love? — That was no love! 

He could not know that beneath that front Helen’s 
heart was breaking. She felt lost, like a little girl who is 
lost. She had given her trust, her lips to this man; she 
had challenged Goddard when he warned against him, 
but Goddard had been right. John Taylor had not been 
worthy of her trust, let alone her caresses — else why 
that silence? Why had he admitted the black charges? 
He had betrayed her while he made love! Oh, she was 
sick and weak and faint, but her high temper was up. 
Her forest was her life. Today John Taylor, through 
Phil Rowe, had struck at her life! There could be no 
answer to that! ’ 

She moved to her desk and sat down, trying to still the 1 


260 


TIMBER 


flutter of her heart; the tremor of her hands, fighting 
back the blackness that seeped up to clutch her con- 
sciousness. 

“The last of your logs will be at the mill tonight,” 
she said. “Here is last week's statement. We will be 
finished with your cut within a week.” 

This was dismissal and he rocked under the blow of her 
decisiveness. 

“Yes — finished — And I will be going — now. ” 

He turned and brushed past Goddard, leaving the 
house, going to his bunk, packing his suitcase with cold 
hands, a fog before his eyes, rage within his heart. She 
had no trust for him, she would not listen! 

And remorse came to him because he had shrunk from 
facing this situation before, when there was time to 
explain, when he might have been believed. 

Until Taylor had disappeared within the men's shanty 
Milt Goddard stood watching him. Then he turned. 
Helen sat at her desk, hands gripping the chair arms for 
a frantic hold on reality. He moved toward her and put his 
big palms on the desk. 

“I warned you, "he said thickly. “I was right, wasn't 
I? And now I guess you know which man it is that — ” 

“Don't you say that word!” she cried hoarsely, spring- 
ing up. “Don't you say it to me, Milt Goddard — Ever! — 
Nor any man! Any man! — ” 

She drew the back of one hand across her mouth as 
though she would wipe from it the memory of Taylor's 
kisses. She started to speak, but breath caught in her 
throat. 

“Ever!” she cried again, chokingly and turned and fled. 


CHAPTER XXV 


About the time that Goddard was putting Taylor 
through his ordeal, the sheriff of Blueberry dropped into 
the Banner office. The editor was in the back room cutting 
paper for a handbill job when the officer thrust his head 
through the open doorway. 

“Howdy, Hump,” he said. 

“Many of ’em, Joe! Anything special?” 

“I’ll leave it on your desk. 

He disappeared and Bryant went on with his work, 
but something in the sheriff’s tone lingered as a dis- 
turbing echo and presently he went into the front office 
and picked up the folded document. He scanned the 
outside carefully and his lips worked slowly in the white 
beard. He opened it, turning it up so he could read. When 
he had read he sat down quite suddenly, as though weary 
all at once. After a time his printer came to the door and 
asked about the paper. 

“I started cutting it; finish her up, Will,” he said. 

He rose and climbed the stairs to his rooms above. 
He took off his vest, for it was hot, and unbuttoned the 
neck-band of his stiff-bosomed shirt. 

“Oh, dear,” he sighed. 

He drew out his own rocker to the window and then 
brought the other chair from its corner. He sat down, 
but did not rock. His pudgy legs sprawled awkwardly, 
giving to his posture a significant listlessness. When he 
261 


262 


TIMBER 


did move it was to stretch out a hand and stroke the 
arm of that other rocker as though he touched the arm 
of a dear friend for assurance and sympathy and comfort. 

It was there that Helen Foraker found him. She was 
well within the room before he was aware that her car 
had halted below and her feet sounded on the stairs. He 
started up and summoned a smile. 

“You’re a ray of sunshine,” he said wearily, “in a 
sunny but dreary day. 

“Why, Helen!” looking sharply. “What’s—” 

She turned away quickly and he moved toward her. 
But she faced him with a sharp movement and said : 

‘ 1 N othing much — but trouble ! ’ ’ 

Her voice was hard and flat and her eyes were dry but 
he read that in her which she held back by heroic effort. 
He stood there a moment. 

“Let’s have it now — It’s hurting you.” 

And, sitting in his wife’s rocker, she told the story of 
Rowe’s coming, in short sentences, hands clasped tightly 
in her lap, not looking once at her listener. She finished. 

“Luke Taylor? His — father?” 

“Yes, his father,” dully. 

The old man leaned closer and put a timid hand on her 
clenched fists. “And — he knew?” 

“He knew, Humphrey — Oh, he knew!” 

And with these words the flatness went out of her voice. 
It was the cry of wretched pain! 

An hour later: “I have trusted so few people in my life 
and of them there has been only one worthy. That is you, 
Humphrey. I’m depending on you so, now!” His eyes 
shifted from her face uneasily. “It’s make or break 


TIMBER 


263 


right now. I’m at the end of my rope and whether I let 
go or can climb back depends so much on you. ” 

“There can be no dodging of anything now,” he said. 
“At times it has been easier to trust Providence and put 
aside thoughts of threatening influences and to think 
only of the present. But the present and the future are 
too closely linked today, Helen. I have tried to be your 
helper. I will try so long as my bones and spirit hold 
together, but, to be an influence for good, one must have 
standing, authority or security — I have had little standing 
among the men of this county, but I have had authority 
and security because I’ve kept my hands clean while they 
fingered the mire of political degredation. Until now I 
have been an influence because no man has dared question 
my integrity. They’ve dared everything but that — 
until now. ” 

“Now?” 

The old man drew the paper the sheriff had left from his 
pocket, as if it required great physical effort. 

“This,” he said, after an interminable pause and in a 
voice which was husked, “is an order to appear in Probate 
Court Thursday and show cause why I should not be 
removed from my guardianship of Bobby and Bessy 
Kildare. ” 

A flash of rage showed in the girl’s eyes. “ Be removed ! ” 
“Removed — They have looked over my annual 
inventory and find that I’ve loaned fifteen thousand 
dollars of the children’s money on four sections of your 
land. They are now calling on me to prove that I have 
not mishandled the funds left to my keeping. ” 

“But you can. Fifteen thousand — and for four 
sections!” 


264 


TIMBER 


He smiled wistfully. 

“I have not betrayed my trust; I have not made 
unwise investments. I can show that. Although our 
national idea of justice is to consider the accused innocent 
until he is proved guilty, in practice the accused is damned 
forever. He may escape legal punishment, he may prove 
that he has been besmirched by foul hands for despicable 
reasons, but he can never quite live down the question 
that was raised. 

“I have trod upon the toes of a great power, of Chief 
Pontiac himself, and this is his method of fighting back. 
IPs a good one — questioning the guardianship of a man 
over orphans!” 

He cleared his throat rather vehemently. 

“ There is no charge that could be brought which would 
be more likely to ruin a man’s influence. It may cost me 
my hold over the board in this matter of your taxation. 
It may cost me my seat in the senate.” 

“Oh, not that! Why, it may not even be Harris who is 
behind it.” 

He shook his head gravely. 

“None else, my dear. The complaining witness is 
Lucius Kildare, the children’s only living relative. It is 
immaterial to comment on the mental calibre of Lucius.” 

“But, Humphrey, if you prove — ” 

“Vindication is not the important thing, my dear. 
When you say that you have relied on me, you are right. 
When you say that I am your only trustworthy friend, 
perhaps you are nearly right again. You do need friends, 
but you need friends with influence, and if this matter ever 
reaches a hearing, my influence, I’m afraid, is gone. I will 
be scoffed at as a betrayer of orphans. 


TIMBER 


265 


“A great missile to hurl — a betrayer of orphans!” 

“But what can we do?” she asked. 

The old man rose. “Do?” he murmured and, drawing 
down his spectacles, walked to the high walnut bookcase. 
He opened the glass door and took down a huge volume, 
bound in black leather, stamped with gold. He returned 
to the window and riffled the thin pages. Pausing with 
a thick finger on the passage sought, he looked at her with 
something like a smile in his eyes. “Do? Fight! Fight, 
my dear! Fight as the men of Henry the Fifth fought at 
Agincourt! Fight — because it is an honorable battle. 
Fight with the spirit that Shakespeare poured into the 
ruler of Britain. Listen! 

“ 1 — he which hath no stomach to this fight, 

Let him depart . . . 

We would not die in that man’s company 
That fears his fellowship to die with us. . . . 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, . . . 

Will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 

And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.” *” 

His voice was profound, speech slow; he recited more 
than read those lines which reek with courage; his eyes 
snapped, his frame seemed straighter. 

“ — ‘And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remember’d; 


266 


TIMBER 


We few, we happy few, . . . 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed 
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. ' " 

He closed the book and dropped it to the table. 

The girl rose. Her face was flushed and she breathed 
rapidly. The call to battle was in her blood! 

“I'm not afraid of scars!" she said unsteadily. “With 
you, Humphrey — I will fight with you!" 

He held out his arms and she swung into them and 
shuddered against his body; his hands stroked her hair; 
his old lips went to her forehead in a gentle kiss and he 
lifted his eyes in a flash of suffering, for he knew that upon 
her heart that day were scars of which she never could 
be proud. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


And there Agincourt fell upon them! 

The weekly newspaper from a neighboring county 
made its appearance with an article on the front page 
which began as follows: 

“We understand that our good neighbors in Blueberry 
County are being ham-strung by certain interests which 
want to take money out of the county and put nothing 
back in the shape of taxes. It is said that underground 
political forces have been so successful in their black- 
guard activities that their new court house, badly needed 
for years, and road improvements are halted for the time 
being. 

“Our people may congratulate themselves on being 
free from selfish and reactionary interests. It is a stain 
on the fair name of any community to have the presence 
of such leeches, etc.” 

Copies of this journal appeared in numbers. Within 
twenty-four hours farmers up and down the river and in 
the far corners of remote townships found marked copies 
of the paper in mail boxes and did not need rapidly 
running rumors to establish the identity of the “reac- 
tionary interests” as Foraker’s Folly. Rumors and 
grumbling and discontent spread quickly and when 
Helen Foraker drove the sand roads she was followed by 
black looks and talked about sourly by men who had 
hoped to profit at her expense. 

Humphrey Bryant had taken advantage of an 
267 


268 


TIMBER 


unexplained loophole in the law, the story had it, to 
enable Foraker’s Folly to grow rich at the expense of the 
rest of the county. But wait — wait! was the word 
passed by the supervisors, who had said little and looked 
wise, for Harris again had them in hand. 

And another sly story crept about: That young John 
Taylor, son of the great and remembered Luke, was no 
idle son of a rich man. He had been at work for weeks 
to get possession of the Folly. He had come for that 
purpose, he had wormed his way into the girl’s confidence 
and had then come into the open. That was why he 
was living in Pancake, boarding with the widow Holmquist 
and awaiting the ripening of plans that would mean much 
to the town and the county. 

When men came to Jim Harris for confirmation of this 
story he shrugged and said little; but he said enough 
and his eyes carried a fine twinkle when he said — just 
enough. 

Milt Goddard heard this and carried it to Helen. 

“Rowe is making his cracks that Taylor was here all 
the time like a — a spy, ” he said. 

She turned away so abruptly that the gesture was more 
stinging than any reply she might have made. Goddard’s 
hour of triumph had been brief, indeed. He had dismayed 
John Taylor, but it had gained him nothing — for the 
present. He could wait, though; he could wait. He told 
himself that as the flush which Helen’s wordless rebuke 
had caused began to fade. 

Other happenings: For instance, Rowe and Harris 
drove out toward Seven Mile Creek, turned off before 
reaching the mill and followed a pair of dim ruts along 
the edge of the swamp until they came to a small clearing 


TIMBER 


269 


with an ancient log cabin squatted among the balsams. 
There they halted and Harris sounded his horn until its 
hoarse voice startled birds in the forest. 

Inside the cabin, a stirring, a shuffling step, and Charley 
Stump appeared in the doorway. 

“ Hello, Charley.” 

“Hello,” falteringly. “Who are ye?” 

“It’s me, Jim Harris. We come out to have a talk.” 
He chuckled. “We want to settle, Charley!” 

The old man’s face showed indecision. He was not sure 
whether to be flattered or frightened, but the two visitors 
entered the house with so much good nature that he was 
put at ease. 

The three sat down in the foul smelling room and talked 
for long, quite earnestly, in low voices, and now and then 
Rowe or Harris went to the doorway and looked out. 

Charley stood beside the car when Harris started the 
motor. 

“An’ when it’s all over will you give me a set of tires 
for my safety, too, Jim?” 

“Tires? You bet, Charley!” 

Both men laughed. 

The second day after Rowe’s visit to her house, a letter 
mailed from Pancake came to Helen. It read: 

“You will do well to clear out of this county. We have 
stood for your ways long enough and do not want you 
for a neighbor at any price. If you do not go of your own 
will, things will happen which will make you clear out 
anyhow. — Citizens’ Committee. ” 

With an impatient exclamation she tore the sheet in 
half, but arrested the gesture to throw it into the waste 


270 


TIMBER 


basket, smoothed it out, and later that day carried it 
to the office of the Banner. Humphrey read it slowly; 
then snorted: 

“Citizens’ Committee! It’s not hard to guess where 
this came from!” 

He paced the office with the greatest show of rage 
Helen had ever seen him exhibit. 

“I’d be willing to bet my last penny that Harris 
wrote that note himself and that Rowe looked over his 
rascally shoulder while he did it. They’re thicker than 
thieves!” 

“Could we prove that?” 

“No. Give the devil his due, Helen, they’re slicker 
than eels! This is blackmail and they’ll take no chances, 
just as they’re taking no chances in trying to ruin me! 

“I’ve haunted the court house, I’ve tapped every 
underground wire of information I have, but they’ve cut 
me off. Not a soul knows a word outside the rascals who 
have planned it and the rascals who are going to execute 
their orders. They’re saving this thing for a knockout 
blow and they’re taking no chances of spoiling it by letting 
the plan leak. By keeping quiet they have everything 
to gain and not a whisper to lose.” 

Closeted in Jim Harris’ room in the Commercial House 
that night, Jim and Phil Rowe and the Judge of Probate 
talked in half tones over their cigars. 

I “If there’s a leak we’ll spot it,” said Harris. “The 
three of us, the kid and the sheriff are the only ones who 
know, except Bryant himself. He won’t squeak, so that 
if anything does get around we’ll know where it comes 
from.” 


TIMBER 


271 


His hand on the table clenched and his eyes showed 
no humor as they fixed a penetrating gaze on the nervous 
little judge. 

“If she comes off all right, we’ll be able to answer the 
old question about who cracked cock robin, an’ when 
I’m through with him he can squawk as loud as he wants 
about Chief Pontiac’s valuation and they’ll laugh him 
out of the country. I’m afraid of no robber of orphans!” 
He mouthed the words in satisfaction. 

And so while the county buzzed with hostility against 
Helen Foraker, that little group waited for the hour 
when Bryant, her only support, would walk from the 
court house a discredited man, for they knew, as well as 
the editor himself knew, that for their purposes the charge 
was as good as conviction. 

Humphrey was to have gone to Detroit Monday night 
to find an investor to take up the mortgage which Wilcox, 
the new cashier of the Pancake Bank, had informed 
Helen by mail must be met at the end of the month, when 
it was due. But the serving of that notice to appear in 
court Thursday altered all plans. 

It was on Tuesday morning that John Taylor entered 
the Banner office and confronted the editor. The old 
man looked up from his desk with a searching stare instead 
of his usual smile. 

“You’ve heard, of course, about me,” John said after 
a brief exchange. 

Humphrey pushed up his spectacles and nodded 
“Everything.” 

“And you think that I’m — ” 

He did not finish. The other examined his pencil tip 
carefully; then looked up once more. 


272 


TIMBER 


“Helen has been like my daughter since her father died. 
I have no children of my own. I have no kin. I’m a 
lonely old man and in her I’ve found an outlet for all 
the sentiment that old men have. What harms her, 
harms me. In rational processes I might differ with her, 
in purely natural reactions — I don’t care to discuss 
them. ” 

“You believe, then, that — ” 

“I don’t want to be unjust or hard, Taylor, but in 
this matter you’ll have to excuse me. You wouldn’t try 
to argue with a father whose impulses and sentiment were 
strong, would you?” 

A warning flash of unreasonable but natural temper 
was in his face and John went out, standing a long time 
on the edge of the sidewalk, staring across the street. 

He had gone about in a half daze since leaving the 
forest yesterday. He felt numb and heartless and 
guilty and hurt. His mind would not stay on his affairs. 
He tried to put it there by a trip to the mill at Seven 
Mile the next day, but he was in a panic for fear Helen 
would come and he would be forced to confront her. 
He was glad to be back in Pancake that night, but his 
room in Mrs. Holmquist’s house, where he had sought 
refuge from Rowe and Harris, was stifling so he walked 
down First Street slowly and sought an isolated chair 
on the hotel verandah. 

The night was sultry. Preceding nights had been warm 
after scorching days. Each evening clouds gathered and 
rain was promised, but no rains came. Day after day 
the brisk, dry wind had fanned the country, browning 
the brakes, bleaching ripening June grass, wilting the 
foliage of aspens. 


TIMBER 


273 


John saw the lights go out in the office of the Banner , 
saw the old editor come outside and toil up the 
stairway to his rooms above. The light came on 
there and Humphrey stood in his living room and took 
off his stiff bosomed shirt and stood motionless an interval. 
Then he did a strange thing. He drew up two rockers 
to the window for all the world as though he expected a 
visitor. For a time he rocked, then he rose and turned 
off the light and Taylor imagined he sat down again 
beside that empty chair in the darkness. 

Lucius came along the street, smoking a cigar with a 
deal of manner. There was that in his bearing which 
indicated stimulants. 

“ Hello, Mr. Taylor!” 

“Hello, Lucius.” 

“Hot night.” 

“Yes. Hot.” 

Pause. 

Taylor hoped the boy would go on but he mounted 
the steps and dragged up a chair, propping his feet 
pompously on the rail. 

“Hot an’ dusty an’ dead,” he said ponderously. “Pan- 
cake’s as — as flat as a pancake!” 

His silly giggle confirmed the suspicion that he had been 
drinking. 

“Well she won’t bother me much more b’ God. It may 
be hotter in Detroit but it ain’t so dead, I’ll tell the world. ” 

“Going to Detroit, are you?” 

“I’ll say I am! Just as soon as I get this here, now, 
case off my mind I’ll be on my way.” He wagged his 
head and hitched his chair even closer and whispered. 
“You know, Taylor, we got old Hump sunk.” 


274 


TIMBER 


“Sunk?” 

“I’ll say we have! Leave it to Jim — Besides,” 
brandishing his cigar, “I ain’t no man to go off an leave 
th’ kids in a hole. That stuff don’t go down y’ know, 
Taylor. Business ’s business, but when it’s stealin’ from 
orphans, why that ain’t business.” 

Taylor sat silent, every muscle tensing, letting these 
ambling suggestions sink in — Harris — Bryant — orphans 
— this case — 

“Sure not,” he said watching the youth. 

“Course, you know all about it,” went on Lucius. 
“Rowe says you’re his friend an’ so does Jim. Fine feller, 
Jim. He give this advice for nothin’ an’ even agrees 
to slip me a little change so’s I can go to Detroit when 
it’s all over. ” He giggled. “ An’ he slips me a little now 
so a feller can enjoy himself in a town as flat as a pancake. ” 

Taylor managed to hold his voice steady. 

“You’ll be pulling stakes soon, then.” 

“ Yup, ” lowering his voice. “After tomorr’ a. m. prob’ly. 
Y’see, the case comes up at ten in the mornin’. Jim says 
that’s all there’ll be to it, just have th’ old devil appear 
in court an’ answer my complaint that he ain’t done right 
by Bobby an’ Bessy when he lends their money to the 
Foraker girl.” 

He rolled the cigar in his lips and nodded importantly. 

“Then it’ll all be over tomorrow? That will end it? ” 

“So far’s I give a damn it will. It’ll ruin Hump’, Jim 
says an’ that’s all we want. He won’t be hornin’ into 
other folk’s business, then — ” 

Lucius giggled. “ Tha’s all. I don’t give damn about th’ 
kids. I don’ care what they do to old Bryant. I’m out after 
th’ jack, I am! So’s I can get to Detroit an’ a real town.” 


TIMBER 


275 


He nudged John with his elbow. “I’m from Pancake, 
but I’ll show ’em a step or two when I land there with 
fifty dollars!” 

“ Fifty dollars is a lot of money,” said Taylor. 

“Not a cent too much! I told Jim it wasn’t when he 
offered it to me to sign th’ complaint over in th’ judge’s 
office. It won’t last long, but then, I can get a job easy, 
I can — ” 

He ambled on with his puerile boasts while Taylor’s 
mind worked like lightning. 

“Have you seen Jim tonight?” he asked, to bring the 
boy back to those pregnant facts. 

“Nope. Don’t ’tend to, neither. He give me five 
on th’ promise that I wouldn’t get jingled — But, hell, 
Pancake’s too dead for a sober man. Besides I ain’t told 
nobody but you — an’ you know it already. It’s all fixed, 
anyhow. We’ll have old Hump sunk an’ I’m th’ com- 
plainin’ witness, ain’t I?” 

He sat up in his chair and swayed to peer closely into 
Taylor’s face. 

“Can’t do nothin’ without me, can they? Can’t turn 
a wheel, can they? Huh! Guess I got a right to get 
jingled a little on your money! I ain’t any damn fool, 
Taylor. I know what’s goin’ on. All you fellers want is to 
get Bryant out of th’ way so you can razee this Foraker 
girl back into th’ brush an’ you an’ Rowe get her pine. ” 
Spit. Wipe of hand across an uncouth chin. “B’ God I 
ain’t so damn dumb!” 

No, he was not damned dumb! He saw through Harris’ 
scheme and his words brought order and reason to Taylor. 

So they were after Bryant, were they? They were 
framing him? And then, with him out of the way, Helen 


276 


TIMBER 


Foraker would be at the mercy of Luke Taylor! This was 
Jim Harris’ plotting, but he knew that Rowe’s hand and 
mind had not been idle. John sat up. 

“Suppose,” he said, “that the case should be postponed. 
Suppose they should hold you here a long time? Wouldn’t 
you expect more than your fifty?” 

“ I’ll tell a man I would. But they won’t. The probate 
judge’s fixed an’ old Bryant can’t turn a wheel to save 
himself. My part’s done in ten minutes tomorra. Tha’s 
all. Night after next I’ll be steppin’ out among ’em!” 

In the poolroom across the street appeared the figure of 
Jim Harris, walking behind the tables, looking among the 
loafers in the far end of the room. 

“There’s Harris,” said Taylor. 

“Where?” Lucius started sharply. “Say, I better 
shake a leg! If he thought I’d been drinkin’ — ” 

He rose. Harris was talking to the proprietor behind his 
counter. Taylor got to his feet. 

“You’d better clear out,” he said. “He’ll see you sure. 
Here, come along!” 

Half shoving the confused boy he left the porch, 
whisked around the corner and was out of sight when 
Harris, scratching his head, appeared outside the pool- 
room and scanned the deserted street. 

“Close shave!” whispered Taylor, slapping Lucius 
on the back. “But we’re safe now.” 

A plan was forming in his mind, forming, oh, so slowly! 
He flattered the boy, directed a stream of inane banter 
into his ears as he led him down the dark street, keeping 
his tongue wagging while his mind drove along in search 
of a workable scheme. 

“You got any hooch left?” he asked finally. 


TIMBER 


277 


He could see Lucius wink heavily. 

“HI say I have. Want a touch?” 

“You know it!” 

They made their way by circuitous route to the rear 
of the livery stable, careful not to show themselves to Jim, 
who still stood in the street, watching stray passers. 
Lucius entered the red barn, fumbled under the cushions 
of his rattle-trap car and brought out a bottle. 

^ “Here Jack, ole kid, touch her off!” 

He was exceedingly familiar and rested an arm across 
Taylor’s shoulders and John tasted the concoction. That 
was enough ; one taste. Its vile strength gave him assur- 
ance; liquor like that fitted well with his maturing plan. 
He wiped his lips and passed the bottle to Lucius. 

“Drink hearty!” The silhouette before him tipped the 
bottle up and the liquor gurgled. 

They went out, taking the whiskey, and wandered to the 
railroad track where they sat on a pile of ties. 

“Don’t take too much,” Taylor warned. “That’s stiff 
stuff.” 

“Nev’ min’ me. I c’n carry m’ hooch! Why, Jack, I 
ben drinkin’ ev’ since I wus so high — here, have touch. ” 

Again John tasted and held the bottle in his hands for 
a long interval thereafter while he talked, humoring the 
boy, laughing at his tawdry boasting, edging the talk 
further away from Harris. 

In the distance the south-bound night train whistled. 
The little town was asleep and dark. A light in the Com- 
mercial House and one in the bank made the only relief 
in the close night. 

i “Lucius, what if Harris throws you down? What if he 
gets you into court and then holds out on you?” 


278 


TIMBER 


“ Think he would?” The youth seemed sobered for the 
moment by the prospect. “If he did, I’d get him, b’ God! 
Don’ give damn ’bout th’ case — all I wan’ ’s a crack at 
Detroit. ” 

“Let’s move on.” 

They rose and went toward the station. They were the 
only people astir. The train whistled nearer and they 
could hear its distant rumble when the uneasy breeze died. 

“Lucius, let’s not wait for Jim! Let’s make sure of this 
— go on down to Detroit tonight!” 

They were on the station platform, face to face, and 
Taylor took the boy’s arm as he planted this suggestion. 

“You ’n’ me? Sure — ” Then he shook off Taylor’s 
hands groggily. “Sa-ay what you wan’ me to go tonigh’ 
for?” an ugly note in his thick voice. 

“For company. I’m going down the line tonight. It’ll 
be all right. I’ll tell Jim all about it. You’ve done your 
share and if they’ve got anything on Bryant they can get 
along without you. Besides you’re not sure of your fifty 
yet, and I’ll buy your ticket. ” 

Far off a blue-white glare in the sky told that the train 
was swinging around the big bend, rushing down on 
Pancake, which was not a schedule stop. 

“You ’n’ me? Lucius an’ Jack.” 

“I’ll promise you a job if you go — tonight.” 

“Tha’ righ’? Gimme a job? Say, Jack, you’re all to 
the candy — you — ” 

He said more but Taylor did not hear. He drew a 
folded newspaper from his pocket and struck a match. 
The train was very near, the ray of its headlight swinging 
in towards them, throwing buildings into sharp relief. 
He held the match to the paper. The torch flared and 


TIMBER 


279 

r \ 

he waved it. The locomotive whistle barked twice and 
fire streamed from the brake shoes — 

In the cindery seat of the smoker Lucius settled himself 
with a satisfied grin. He fumbled in his coat for the bottle, 
drained it with no offer of hospitality and then, tossing 
it into the night, pillowed his head on the window sill and, 
passed into oblivion. 

“One to Peerless and one to Detroit/’ said Taylor to 
the conductor. 

Peerless was the first stop. 

Dirty, uncomfortable men slept or smoked stupidly 
in the car. None paid attention to Taylor. He joggled 
Lucius, drew his head up from the sill and it fell against the 
seat-back, but the boy gave no indication of awakening. 

Quickly John searched the other’s pockets, taking every 
penny of change except a lone dime. Then he took an 
envelope from his own pocket and wrote on it: 

“Go to Mr. Richard Mason, Mason Auto Wheel 
Company. Tell him who your are and that John Taylor 
sent you. He will take care of you and give you a job.” 

This he thrust into the boy’s pocket and sat back, 
lighting a cigarette with unsteady hands. 

The brakeman came out of the smoky vestibule. 

“Next stop Peerless! — Peerless — ” 

Taylor lurched down the rocking aisle. 

“Listen, Charley,” taking the trainman by the arm. 
“My drunken friend has just street car fare. The address 
he is going to is in a note in his pants’ pocket. Tell him 
about it, and keep this for yourself. ” 

He shoved a bill into the other’s hand and went down 
the car steps. 

“All right, boss, good-night.” 


'280 


TIMBER 


The man smiled and waved a farewell asjdie locomotive] 
snorted to be under way again. 

Peerless, too, was asleep but not so soundly as Pancake. , 
There were a half dozen street lights and one upstairs 
window of a business block showed life. The metal sign 
of a telephone company reflected the glow within. 

John knocked and parleyed with a feminine voice on 
the other side. For some time entrance was refused, 
but finally a frightened little girl plucked aside the shade, 
peered out and with misgivings allowed him to enter. 

For three hours he sat beside her switchboard while 
she worked to rouse rural operators and get a wire into 
Detroit. He did not let her rest and was rewarded finally 
by a sleepy voice in his ear. 

“Hello, John; what the devil’s up?” 

“You’re up — and I’m up — Listen, Dick, I’m sending 
a man down for a job.” 

“Don’t need any men; turning ’em off every day.” 

“Makes no difference — His name is Kildare, Lucius 
Kildare, and he’s on the way down with just enough money 
to get his hangover and appetite to your plant. 

“Give him a job and keep money away from him — Yes 
— Ball and chain, if necessary — A job at your house 
would be fine!” 

“What’s the game?” 

“A big one. Do as I say because it’s more important 
than anything I’ve ever asked of you before. If you let 
this kid get back into this country in a month I’ll never 
ask another favor of you as long as I live!” 

A laugh came over the wire. 

“If it’s that serious I’ll put him up at the club! Or how 
about a straight jacket?” 


TIMBER 


281 j 

i 

“ Good idea and night. Go back to bed. Many thanks, 
until I can explain.” 

He walked out of the telephone exchange unmindful 
of the wondering stare of the operator. He strolled to the 
small station and sat down on a baggage truck to smoke 
and wait for a north-bound morning train. The cigarette 
glowed idly and the coal shrank into its shell of ash. He 
leaned his head back against the wall of the building and 
fixed his eyes on a faint star, low in the north. 

He reflected. 

This was the thing he could do. He could fight his 
father, Phil Rowe, Jim Harris; all these other men and 
influences that were aligned against Helen Foraker. He 
could put his best into that fight and make a courageous 
attempt to drive away the menace he had brought upon 
her. He owed her that; he would square his account. 

He felt just the least bit heroic as he planned that fight 
and a tinge of bitterness crept into his attitude toward the 
girl. She had professed to give him her love, but when 
the crisis came the forest was uppermost in her mind. 
Her life, she had said it was, and perhaps that had been 
truth because she had shown no willingness to give him 
the benefit of the doubt — after she had given him her 
caresses. Her ready defiance which he had once thought 
splendid seemed a weakness, now. 

And yet before the north-bound train stopped for him 
he became cold and lonely and was prompted to go to her 
and plead his case. But he could not do that, he told him- 
self. He had been wrong, he had dodged and twisted and 
failed to meet the issue, when it concerned this girl who 
never dodged ! He was small, small beside her, and her con- 
sequence seemed even greater as he pictured her, backed 


282 


TIMBER 


in a corner, fighting these powerful forces which sought to 
overwhelm her. 

Until midnight Helen had been out with Goddard and 
Black Joe watching a ground fire run itself into a wet 
marsh. She undressed very slowly and sat on the edge 
of her bed. Watch Pine whispered restlessly above her 
house this night and struck a responsive chord in her 
heart. Until now she had thought of John Taylor only 
with anger. He had come to her, she had helped him, 
she had loved him, only to have him strike at the vital 
thing for which she lived and worked. But tonight her 
weariness could rally no resentment and her thoughts 
persisted in straying back to sweet moments. When he 
had fished with her at evening, when he had been beside 
her desk at night learning the things she had to teach; 
when he had talked of his father; when he had pledged his 
allegiance — and when his lips had first touched hers. 
Now, there was no wrath to think that he had come sa 
close to her heart, but only a sense of emptiness, loneliness. 
Was her forest all that mattered? she asked herself. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


It was an agitated little county official who sat in the 
office of the judge of probate of Blueberry County and 
whispered into a telephone. 

“I tell you, Jim, there ain’t nothin’ I can do if the 
complainin’ witness don’t show up. No — no — I can’t — 
I’m helpless. Can’t you come down and talk it over?” 
glancing at the clock. “It’s only nine-thirty; we got a 
half hour.” 

“No, I can’t come. This thing looks like a fliv, and if 
it does, the less anybody knows about it, includin’ J. H., 
the better.” A grit came into his lowered voice. “And 
if — get out, Central! — any stories get around we’ll 
know damned well where they come from. ” 

“But, Jim, what can I do?” 

“Stall, you poor simp! Stall and give us a chance to 
dig up our party!” 

At ten o’clock Humphrey Bryant entered the court 
room, trying to keep the droop from his shoulders. 

“Say, Hump, I made a mistake in th’ time. Come back 
at eleven, will you?” the judge asked. 

And at eleven the editor was there — and waited until 
twelve and the judge made excuses and went out and 
darted into the Commercial House and inquired frantically 
for Harris. 

“He said,” said Henry, coughing into his pallid cigar, 
tl ‘he said if you called that he couldn’t keep his engagement 
this mornin’. He said you’d understand. ” 

283 


284 


TIMBER 


Ten minutes later Humphrey Bryant walked back to 
the Banner office. It required no effort, now, to keep the 
droop from his shoulders! 

It was evening before Jim Harris returned to Pancake. 
He was bland and good-natured so far as a casual observer 
might have known, but rage seethed in his breast. He 
entered Rowe’s room and flung off his vest irritably. 

“Damned if things don’t pinch out!” he grumbled. 
“I’d’ve sworn that kid would stay put.” 

“No word of him?” 

“Not a whisper. He may be dead for all I know. I 
didn’t dare raise a stink for fear — ” 

His gray eyes flickered with baffled rage. 

Rowe paced the room. 

“ That’s one hold on her that slipped, ” he said. “ We’ve 
got to get busy, Harris. The old man won’t wait all 
summer, and young John — ” 

He stopped shortly. “Say, you don’t suppose — ” 

Harris looked up. 

“Dah! Hell, no! — Huh? — ” he seemed startled, but 
relaxed and shook his head again. “I guess not, Rowe. 
He’s quick in the head, but I don’t think — ” 

He did not say what he thought. His glowering look 
went out the window to the office of the Banner and rested 
there blackly. In the rooms above Humphrey Bryant was 
packing his bag. Tonight he could take up Helen’s fight 
| again! 
j 

It was after supper at the Commercial House. Harris and 
Rowe were on the porch smoking, conversing in casual tones, 
trying not to appear confidential when John Taylor 
came down the street. His face was drawn and pinched. 


TIMBER 


285 


“ Hello Taylor, ” said Harris as he came up the steps. Jim 
had never ceased to be genial with this particular enemy. 
“ How’s tricks? Understand your cut’s about finished.” 

“Yes, two or three days more.” 

“You’ll be pulling out, then?” 

Taylor stopped beside him; there was something in his 
gaze, a direct, penetrating quality which caused Harris’ 
eyes to narrow ever so slightly when John left off scrutiniz- 
ing him and looked hard at Rowe. 

“ I don’t expect to leave right away, ” he said. “ Fact is, 
I intend to stay right here until another matter is cleaned 
up — as one of the preliminary steps I want to turn 
so 1 ae of your money back to you. ” 

“My money?” Harris asked. 

“Yes, this.” Taylor took a bill and some coins from his 
pocket and counted deliberately. “A dollar and sixty- 
eight cents; that’s right.” 

He held out his hand to Harris who made no move to 
accept it. 

“What’s the idea, Taylor? You don’t owe me a nickel. ” 

“I’m beginning to think that I owe you a great deal — 
you and Phil Rowe,” Taylor replied. “This, though, 
is not on our account. This is the money turned back to 
you from young Kildare. I took it from him when he 
was leaving town last night, to escape charges of conspiracy 
and perjury — This will make fifty-one dollars and sixty- 
eight cents that you have saved on this little flier, Harris — 
Take it, you rat!” 

His words bit savagely as he took that one quick step 
which brought him close to Harris. The man reached out, 
almost involuntarily, for the change. It clinked in his 
palm. 


286 


TIMBER 


Taylor stood a moment, looking down upon them. 
“Now,” he said, “ maybe we understand each other a 
little better. I said, Rowe, that I was going to fight you. 
This is the beginning!” 

He turned and walked quickly away. 

“Well I’ll go to hell!” muttered Phil Rowe. 

“And I’ll keep you company,” whispered Harris 
huskily. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


During those hot June days no cloud obscured the 
sun, but its light came hampered to the parched barrens 
through strata of smoke from many fires. Far and near 
the country was patched with blaze; flames running 
through brush and dry grass, hot and greedy for an hour, 
to be baffled by some sandy road which it could not leap, 
or a lake or marsh which balked it; other fires, in the 
depths of swamp, smouldered for days, sending up vast 
quantities of dense smoke; hot blazes in slashings licked 
up logging litter and reduced the soil itself to ash by the 
fierce heat. 

The supervisors, who are local fire officers, met the 
situation with all the variability of mankind. “Let her 
burn,” said some. “It’ll make it easier to clear,” while 
others slaved at the deadening drudgery of checking fires 
in cut-over land. 

The district warden, red of eyes, skin grimed by smoke, 
voice hoarse from days in it, covered his counties in 
frantic drives to touch the worst spots and keep his 
deputies at the grind. 

Fire! At once man’s best servant and worst enemy! 
Ah, you city dwellers, who explain so casually the faint 
pall that drifts on roaming winds as smoke from burning 
forests! It is remote, it does not touch you; you know 
none of the terror men know who watch its crimson ring 
close on their forests, their homes, their future, their very 
lives! 


287 


288 


TIMBER 


Within the boundaries of Foraker’s Folly was efficient 
preparedness. In the open shed where Helen’s car stood, 
hung a rack of brass fire extinguishers, with drums of 
soda and tight cans of water. It could be lowered in a 
moment to the body of the car and clamped firmly there 
to be hastened to any point in the forest. This was a 
recently adopted idea, suggested by New England 
methods. At a half-dozen points through her property 
small sheds housed two-wheeled carts laden with similar 
apparatus, and shovels and axes. Also, three telephones 
were placed in strategic points so word of danger might 
be sent to the house without delay for there is but one 
way to control forest fire: Get there quick! As Black 
Joe sagely instructed the new patrolmen, ‘ ‘Get that when 
you c’n spit her out!” 

All day long a look-out swung in the top of Watch Pine, 
but when the smoke was dense that vigilance was not 
enough and from three to a dozen men patroled the outer 
fire lines. Some of these rode horses which were harnessed 
and ready to be galloped to one of the equipment stations 
and drag the apparatus to action. 

It was racking work. With evening came relief, because 
fire in the open loses its vigor with dusk; but each night 
which brought no rain only promised increased tension 
for the morrow and Helen Foraker felt her nerves stretch- 
ing taut. The smoke cloud was enough to think about, 
let alone that other cloud which hung over her — or the 
emptiness in her heart! 

There was emptiness there, and it grew with the days 
and this afternoon as she felt herself rocked gently by the 
wind — for she was on lookout herself — the girl stared 
out across the forest that had been her whole life and was 


TIMBER 


289 


struck by its inadequacy. There was something lacking, 
something vital had gone, and its passing dated to the 
hour of John Taylor’s departure. 

She had known too little sympathy, had had too little 
support in those years she had been forced to fight with 
men like Sim Burns, she had put up with ridicule and 
feeble attempts at double dealing and with the burden of 
her work, but she had always met them with a stout 
fighting spirit. They had stirred her temper and left her 
heart untouched, but now she seemed only to be making 
fighting gestures, with no spirit behind them. 

Bobby Kildare appeared below and called in his high 
treble that he wanted to come up. Bobby always wanted 
to come up! He begged throughout the summer to be in 
the crow’s nest and, taken there, begged to be left alone 
with the responsibility of watching for smoke. 

“All right; come slowly, Bobby,” she warned and, 
eager hands and feet and eyes all alert, he came up the 
ladder, held to slow progress only by her repeated caution. 

“There!” he sighed as he set foot on the platform and 
Helen dropped the trap closed. “There, lam!” 

His face was very bright, lips parted eagerly as he 
took the field glass and stared to south and west. 

“No fires in sight,” he said. “Huh!” and looked at her 
and shifted his feet and Helen laughed at his enthusiastic 
happiness. 

“No fires near, Bobby — where were you this morn- 
ing?” 

“To the — at the mill, playin’ with the Injun boys and 
Henny Raymer. 

“Aunt Helen, are you going away?” 

“Away? No. Why?” 


290 


TIMBER 


“Oh, Henny said his father told his mother that you 
were going away. He said it was a party. ” 

“Party?” 

“Well, Henry said you’d been invited to go away by 
the voters — who is voters, Aunt Helen?” 

She answered him absently and took the glass to 
stare with unseeing eyes out across the smoke-screened 
land. 

That first warning from the anonymous Citizens’ 
Committee had come on Tuesday. Wednesday brought 
another which she had not opened at once because she 
received it with other mail at the mill just as the saw 
struck a railroad spike buried in a log and scattered in 
ringing bits. 

Raymer had scratched his head and looked at her with 
startled, owlish eyes. 

‘‘Somebody done that,” he said dully. “An’ this 
mornin’ th’ weights had been taken out of th’ idler box 
an’ she wouldn’t saw. We lost two hours. ” 

Later, as she read the curt warning, she saw connection. 

Today was Thursday and the relief which had followed 
the call from Humphrey Bryant, telling her that the case 
against him in probate court had been dropped for lack 
of witnesses, was dissipated by the arrival of another 
warning. 

She saw again Phil Rowe’s ruthless smile; heard again 
his oblique threats. 

Goddard came in that evening. 

“What’s the weather report?” he asked, eyeing her 
steadily, as though his mind were not on his question or 
the fire menace. 

“Continued fair,” she answered and did not look up. 


TIMBER 


291 


She was strangely uneasy with Goddard now, a new 
reaction to him, born with the events of Monday morning 
when he had confronted Taylor with his charge. 

“Saw Sim Burns today.” He fussed with his hat as 
though reluctant to go on, but Helen said, “Yes?” and 
he proceeded: “He says he's got some cedar he’s sold 
to Chief Pontiac. Wants to drive it down and says he’ll 
serve notice on you to open the boom at Seven Mile 
unless you do it yourself.” 

“How much cedar has he?” 

“I don’t know. They got out some posts last winter. 
I recollect some poles, too, but there couldn’t be over a 
carload.” 

“We can put it over the boom for him cheaper than 
we can tear it out.” 

“Yeah. I said that, but he wouldn’t listen. Wants 
the river open.” 

The girl tapped her desk with a pencil. 

“So that’s another item, is it?” 

“Looks that way. He’s doin’ it to make trouble. The 
county’s pretty well stirred up, Helen,” looking at her 
closely. “They’re talking nasty!” 

“Talk is easy to stand.” 

“But there’s more than talk. Those warnings you get; 
w T hat’s happened at the mill — I tell you, Helen, they’re 
too many for you.” 

“You’d have me quit?” 

His eyes shifted. 

“I don’t want to see you — broken.” His eyes raised 
again to her face, dog-like, and she knew the plea that 
was in them, the plea which she had forbidden him to 
speak. “You won’t listen to me,” he said heavily, “an’ 


292 


TIMBER 


I was right once, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I right — about 
Taylor?” 

“Yes” she said. “Yes, you were right,” in a tone 
suddenly thin, and which rose alarmingly in pitch. 

Helen dreamed as she slept that night. Taylor came to 
her and said as he had said one other time, using the words 
of Bobby: “And if I try hard to learn all that you will 
teach me — when I know as much as you, will you marry 
me?” 

He seemed to be standing very close to her. He held 
out his arms and, staring into his face, trying to rebell, 
her feet had carried her forward. He had smiled as his 
arms closed about her, imprisoning her, her forest, her 
life, making her helpless — Then his lips had lowered to 
hers and as their mouths touched her heart raced, her 
cheeks took fire, and in her ears was a strange ringing, 
ringing — a ringing which grew louder and more insistent. 

She found herself in the middle of the room, bewildered 
by a glow in the sky and by the sound of the insistent 
telephone bell. She ran barefooted down the stairs to 
lift the receiver. 

“This is Raymer, ” a voice said. “A deck of logs is on 
fire and the others are in danger. ” 

“Is your pump working?” faculties clearing. 

“The hose had been cut. We need help!” 

“Coming!” 

She called to Goddard out the door, dressed and flew 
to the garage where men were clamping the platform of 
fire extinguishers on the body of the car. They raced 
through the night, with the stain of fire growing brilliant 
before them and came out at Seven Mile to see the mill 
in sharp silhouette and flames leaping high from one bank 


TIMBER 


293 


of her pine logs, the next one to it smoking threateningly. 

The chemicals went into play and the fire was held to 
the one place, but it was daylight before buckets, used 
when the worst heat was over, could drench out the last 
embers. 

The hose, which was on its reel in the mill, had been 
carefully cut in a half dozen places. 

That day came another warning: 

“What happened last night is only a start. Unless you 
make a move to clear out, we will show you what real 
vengeance is. — Citizens’ Committee.” 

It had been mailed twenty-four hours before the fire 
broke out. 

That noon John Taylor, walking between two of his 
lumber piles at Seven Mile siding, stopped shortly and 
then squatted and eyed the ground, touching it here and 
there lightly. Some one had been sitting there and moving 
his feet restlessly — not many hours ago, either. And in 
the sand was another mark, perhaps like that made by a 
bicycle — 

John walked back along the edge of the swamp later. 
The road was little used and grass grew rank in it. 
But here and there where the ruts ran through black 
muck the imprint of an automobile tire was set in perfect 
pattern. The car had stopped at Charley Stump’s cabin 
and turned about there. He returned to Pancake on 
the afternoon freight and before going to his room at 
Mrs. Holmquist’s he stopped a moment before the Com- 
mercial House and eyed the tires on Jim Harris’ automobile. 

It may be recorded here that the next evening the 
Widow Holmquist was talking with her neighbor as she 
, watered her garden. 


294 


TIMBER 


“Yah, he ees a funny man/’ she said. “He ben out all 
hours of de night. Nefer see nodding like it, an' yust to 
tank that he’d bring that old Charley Stump to my house 
yust to give him a cigar an’ set mit him in my house! 
Yim Harris, he was askin’ me about him today, too. 
Dere’s somethin’ funny!” 

That night Jim Harris, Phil Rowe and Wes Hubbard 
sat in Rowe’s room. Harris was writing with a pencil 
laboriously, disguising his hand. He chuckled and then, 
as he finished, muttered: “Signed, Citizens’ Committee!” 

The others smiled. They did not see the face which had 
peered at them over the transom lower nor hear the man 
move stealthily away down the hall, carrying the chair 
on which he had stood. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The house party at Windigo Lodge was breaking up 
Friday. Dick Mason himself had been gone a week, but 
his guests lingered on. Those who had stayed were now 
bound for other retreats: the St. Clair Flats, the Huron 
shore, Lake Michigan resorts, Canada and a variety of 
places. But Marcia Murray had no place to go. She had 
hung on at Windigo because leaving meant a return to 
the none-too-comfortable apartment in Detroit, with her 
summer broken only when invitations called her out of 
town. 

She had let drop, a detail at a time, the change that had 
taken place in John Taylor; not the change in his attitude 
toward her, but his new idealism, his new interest, which 
was foreign to the understanding of those who' knew him. 
They listened, incredulous at first, but Marcia, keyed to 
save her face, was sharply clever and her suggestions had 
the intended effect. 

“Of course, that’s all very fine.” Fan Huston had 
commented, “but, my dear, what has he to offer you?” 

“Everything,” said Marcia and smiled lightly. 

“ Everything ! Why, he has nothing, unless his father — ” 

“He offers everything he has,” Marcia corrected, “and 
that of course, is very splendid, but — quite intangible. ” 

She forced a fresh gaiety, her eyes seemed brighter, her 
laugh more ready and on occasion she put forth a stressed 
mockery which gave them to understand that it was 
295 


296 


TIMBER 


John Taylor who was now being kept impatiently waiting. 
So much, to preserve her standing. 

Phil Rowe telephoned daily. He had come once for an 
afternoon and the visit had caused the lifting of eyebrows 
and a deal of whispering, but Marcia had been cryptic in 
response to attempts to draw her out and they learned 
little. But to Phil Rowe she gave her lips again and 
laughed close in his face, with her arms about his neck. 

Rowe was as keen and ruthless in love as he was in 
business. He wanted this girl with all the intensity of a 
selfish heart; he saw through her, knew that she would go 
to any one of a score of men who might bid the highest, 
knew that she had favored John Taylor above himself. 
But there were two things in life he wanted: control of 
the Taylor millions and possession of Marcia Murray. 
The latter was dependent on the first and he was bound 
to have them both. 

He learned soon that John Taylor had slipped through 
her wily fingers and knew, therefore, that her one hope 
of marrying the Taylor fortune was in marrying him. 
Marcia was not wholly aware of this factor. For a time 
she believed she had succeeded in making Rowe think 
that John still regarded her as his promised wife and she 
held to this lie while she told herself again and again that 
Taylor was a fool and that she was well rid of him. 

But there were nights when she lay sleepless and miser- 
able and even desperate. Give her credit for this: beneath 
her exterior, which was as hard and cold as glass, there 
was a sense of human values and when she saw that 
her appeal had not been able to compete with the whole- 
some womanhood of the girl of the forest, she had her 
periods of heartache and tears. And something else 


TIMBER 


297 


which was now and again almost regret that John Taylor, 
changed, poor, without the ambition she demanded of 
men, was no longer bound to her. 

She was to drive back to Detroit and was taking Fan 
and Tom Huston with her. She wanted one more hour 
with Rowe and so, before leaving, she indicated that they 
must start early to provide for a few hours in Pancake 
where she could have some work done on her car. They 
could make'Saginaw by night and finish the trip the next 
day. Fortunately for Marcia, misfortune in the shape 
of a severe headache visited Fan Huston and as soon as 
they reached Pancake she took to a lumpy bed in the 
Commercial House while Tom engaged in a Kelly pool 
game with three drummers. 

Marcia inquired for Rowe and learned that he was out 
of town but would be back before noon. She bought a 
magazine and settled herself in the parlor of the hotel to 
await impatiently his coming. Her eyes were on the 
pages, her mind occupied with other things; she was 
inattentive to the comings and goings in the office across 
the hall until she became conscious that some one was 
staring at her. 

She looked up quickly. John Taylor was standing just 
outside the doorway. 

“ Hello, Marcia,” he said. 

She did not move or reply for an instant, nor did he 
advance; just stood there, framed in the white door 
casing, while the girl’s mind spun, trying to identify this 
man with the one she had known and held and planned to 
possess. On their former meeting she had been too des- 
perately engaged with the game she played to take much 
notice of the change that had occurred in him, but now, 


298 


TIMBER 


seeing him so unexpectedly, it was as though she beheld 
a man remade. 

He seemed larger; he was rough and unfinished. His 
shoes were heavy and scuffed; his pants were khaki, he 
wore a white cotton shirt open at the throat and no coat; 
a soiled straw hat was in his hand, the big, brown toil- 
stained hand which hung at his thigh. There was rough- 
ness in his face, too; he had not shaved this day, but 
there was no hint of uncouthness in his neglect, for the 
skin of cheeks and chin was bronzed by sun and wind, and 
seemed to be shaped in new lines. There was a different 
set in his mouth, a gravity, a maturity that had not been 
in John Taylor two months ago. His blue eyes, though 
they smiled, now, seemed steadier, more grave, and 
very serious. 

“Why, John!” 

Her cool voice was low and she rose quickly, half 
frightened. 

“ I didn’t know whether you’d want to see me or not. ” 
He was embarrassed as he advanced and looked into her 
flushing face. 

“That shouldn’t have been hard to determine,” she 
said coldly. 

“I suppose not. I guess we have said everything to 
each other that can be said, haven’t we? ” 

“We have!” 

She tried to breathe normally, but the leap of her heart 
would not let her. She felt her knees tremble and averted 
her gaze from his steady scrutiny. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I told you that once. I say it 
again, Marcia. I’m so sorry — but it was better this way 
than — going on, wasn’t it? ” 


TIMBER 


299 


She looked into his face again as in all friendliness 
without the suggestion of a whimper, he said the things 
from which most men would shrink. 

She heard her voice saying: 

“Yes. Anything was better than going on.” She tried 
to put sarcasm into the tone, wanted to wither him with 
her scorn, but somehow those mercenary impulses in her 
were weakening, breaking down, those maxims and values 
that had been nursed and cultivated to stifle the Marcia 
Murray who might have been, were giving way, and with 
that release of something finer and gentler went her self- 
possession and her ability to fence with words. For the 
moment, she was genuine and burst out impetuously, 
saying the things she had said to herself during wakeful 
hours at Windigo, things she had told herself — but the 
truth of which she had denied. 

“John, I made a fool of myself that day. I — you 
see — I have been badly mistaken; I’ve said and done 
the wrong thing for long — there are a great many things 
I regret and one of them is the scene I made before that 
girl — I must have hurt her. ” 

“We all change, Marcia,” he said with a grave smile. 
“I’m glad if you’re sorry. It was unworthy of you. As 
for Miss Foraker, though, you waste time feeling for her. 
Not that she’s thick-skinned. It might have disturbed 
her a great deal, but she’s used to unpleasantness. She’s 
had more than her share.” 

She said: “You think a lot of her, John?” 

She pulled the straw sailor tighter over her golden hair, 
and in her eyes was something rueful as though she 
wanted him to make denial. 

“Yes — a lot.” 


300 


TIMBER 


Marcia drew an unsteady breath and though she was 
in tumult now, that self-possession she had practiced for 
so long was her salvation. 

“And she — ” 

A hurt crossed his face. It was an ordeal to tell the 
truth to this girl, but he could not evade. 

“She thinks I’m her worst enemy.” 

For an instant a flicker as of hope showed in the girl’s 
blue eyes but as she looked at his face, saw the lines of 
pain deepen, caught the sorrow reflected there, that hope 
departed and its tenderness, the genuine quality of it, was 
replaced by something sharp and hot; as natural, but 
far from gentle: jealousy. 

“That’s too bad,” she said. 

She meant that; but within her was confusion, a 
ferment, started by that injection of jealousy. Those good 
impulses lingered, struggling for a hold, but the other 
Marcia, the one who had first loved John Taylor for the 
sake of his father’s money, who had played him against 
Phil Rowe, using both as markers in a mercenary game, 
slowly dominated, covering the anguish in her heart with 
a sort of joy at his pain. 

And yet there was enough of that transient self remain- 
ing to wish this man kindness. She did not want him 
to stay until she lost her temper, until she should taunt 
him. Already the jealousy was changing to the acid of 
temper. 

She held out her hand. 

“Good-bye, John,” she said, with something of the old 
indifference in her voice. “I wish you well. I must go 
look after Fan, now; we’ll be leaving at noon.” 

She slipped past him into the hall. Her chin was up, 


TIMBER 


301 


her eyes were cool and calculating. On the floor above 
she stopped and heard him go out. She looked about. 
The doors of unoccupied rooms were open, shades drawn, 
rickety iron beds decked in grimy coverlets. She slipped 
into the nearest, closed the door and bolted it softly. 

Marcia stood there a moment, hand still on the knob. 
The other went to her face and formed a, cup over her 
mouth. Her head tipped back against the door panel; 
her eyes closed. The trembling of her body shook the 
rickety transom and then the tears came. She moved 
to the bed and buried her face in the pillow. For a long 
time she was there, gradually quieting. When she rose 
she spent many minutes at the wash stand repairing the 
damage her outburst had wrought. 

Fan Huston was picking up her things preparatory to 
departure. Rowe and Marcia stood in the shadow of the 
hotel. The man was listening very closely to what his 
companion had to say, with a queer twitching of his 
lips. She talked rapidly, earnestly. 

“I've been a waster, ” she concluded. “I've wasted the 
finest things that were in me; I've wasted my apprecia- 
tion, my best ambition, my intelligence. It's too late 
now to turn back so long as there’s a goal in sight. I 
haven't the courage. I'm twenty-five, but being twenty- 
five and thinking as I have since I was in my 'teens 
means more than just being twenty-five. 

“Don't misunderstand me, Phil. I can give you a 
certain happiness in return for the luxury I want. Without 
that luxury — no. 

“ This is your chance. If you fail, perhaps my chance 
will come later." 


302 


TIMBER 


Her voice husked for the first time. 

“Your chance?” he asked. 

“ My chance ! I’m bound to you by my habit of thinking, 
now. I have some confidence that you will be able to give 
me the things I have sought for years. But if you should 
fail I don’t believe that I could begin over, hunting 
fortune like a cat stalks its food. I’m weak — weak 
enough to want you to win; but if you should fail it 
might be necessary for me to try something else. I might 
be a nurse or an office woman or any number of things if 
necessary; and sometimes, lately, I’ve hoped it might be 
necessary ! 

“There, I mustn’t cry! I’m sunburned enough, and it 
makes me weak. It’s a long drive ahead. Here comes 
Fan.” 

When she was gone in a cloud of dust, whipped away 
by the hot wind Rowe stood at the curb a long interval, 
head cocked, watching her roadster disappear into the 
jack pines. When he turned back into the hotel he was 
scratching his chin and his crafty eyes showed a strange 
bafflement. He had found that thing in Marcia Murray 
which had staggered him in John Taylor, honesty and 
genuine impulse. In her, however, it had been but a 
flash, to revive again only in case he failed in the game 
he played. 

He snapped his thumb and laughed — somewhat 
uncertainly. 


CHAPTER XXX 


Tuesday. Still the sun glared through the smoke of 
fires. Clouds appeared, banked in the west, broke and 
disappeared. Each noon the wind dropped and hauled 
from southwest to the north and for a few moments its 
draft was cooled; then it came again from the other 
quarter, hot and dry. 

Humphrey Bryant came back on the morning train 
and, without changing from his best suit of black, drove 
in a buggy to Foraker’s Folly. 

Helen read failure in his face even before he spoke. 

“This credit situation isn’t a newspaper flurry,” he 
said. “It’s real. Nobody wants this loan, Helen — not 
for the present. And the Lord alone knows how long it’ll 
take us to sober up financially.” 

She sat down weakly and for an hour he talked, trying to 
be optimistic but without much success. 

And then the girl talked, told of what had happened 
at the mill, told of the daily letters of threat. The butcher 
in Pancake had refused her check and that stung her 
despite the fact that the garage man had gone out of his 
way to be nice to her. Dr. Pelly had driven in to tell her 
that there were friends left her, no matter how great the 
bitterness that her enemies stirred against her. 

Thad Parker had walked over from his farm where 
the sprouting crops were burned by the hot sun and cut 
1 to death by sand blown by tireless winds. He stumblingly 
told how he himself had lain in wait at the mill at night. 

303 


304 


TIMBER 


(“ I don’t sleep much, now — since Jenny’s sleeping 
out there under the oak tree.”) He enumerated some of 
those in the community who were up in arms at the 
organized campaign against her. They were people of 
little influence. 

That night Thad did not watch the mill. Raymer sat 
in the doorway of his tar-paper house, a shot gun handy, 
until the approach of dawn, when he went inside. 

He had not seen a slowly-moving hulk come up to the 
edge of the brush and squat and wait, wait for hours, 
scarcely moving. But when Raymer went within the 
hulk moved back into the brush, wriggled prostrate on 
the far side of a charred log and went through the intrinsic- 
ally innocent operation of lighting a cigar. 

It crept forward again and waited; then rose and 
skulked in the shelter of the mill and appeared again on 
the dam, glow of the cigar hidden in the curve of a gnarled 
and unsteady hand — A crowbar prodded the earth, 
working down into the mud and muck. From his shirt 
bosom the man extracted very carefully a bundle of 
greasy cylinders and tamped them down into the opening 
his bar had made, keeping the long white tail which 
extended from the packet dry. He looked about and 
listened. His head bowed down, and with both hands he 
shielded the glow of the cigar, held it against that white 
tail — a sputter, a careful scuttling across the clearing 
and into the brush. 

The sleepy chirping of the first birds was stilled by the 
heavy, muffled detonation. Mud and dry earth were 
thrown high. The gravel of the road which crossed the 
dam was broken and cracked. Water filled the crevices, 
began spilling through on the far side; the seep became 


TIMBER 


305 


a rush ; the rush washed out a gutter. This breach widened 
and before half-dressed men ran from the shanties the 
pond was roaring through the broken dam, lowering 
rapidly as its own escape made drainage faster. The 
birds picked up their chirping again and broke into song, 
but before they began to fly against the orange heavens 
to the eastward the pond was drained and half the dam 
washed away. 

On the carriage in the mill was found a soiled envelope 
addressed to Helen. 

“So far we’ve gone easy. If you don’t clear out at 
once we will show you what we can do. — Citizens’ Com- 
mittee. ” 

It was hot in Detroit that morning as well, with a 
steady breeze from the southwest which kicked up white 
caps in the river and made the pines in Luke Taylor’s 
garden moan steadily. The old man sat in his library 
with the photographs of the Foraker timber that Rowe had 
taken spread about him on the table, holding a telephone 
receiver to his ear. 

“Hello — Hello — You, Rowe?” 

He hitched forward as an assuring voice came into his 
ear. 

“ What the devil’s wrong with you? ” 

“We’ve been delayed a bit, Mr. Taylor.” 

“Delayed? My God, ain’t you got authority and 
money? What’s delayed you?” 

“The party isn’t quite ready to close.” 

“Not ready! What’s holdin’ it up? Money?” 

“Well, no — they haven’t made up their minds.” 

“Oh, they haven’t made up their minds they want 


306 


TIMBER 


to sell what I want to buy? I want to buy! Are you a 
dummy, Rowe, or just a dead one?” 

“Money doesn’t seem to be much of an object — ” 

“No object! My God, Rowe, now I know you’re a dead 
one! You’re no good; come on home. I’ll go up and close 
the thing myself — no, stay there! I’ll be up tomorrow — 
tomorrow — hear that?” 

Phil Rowe emerged from the telephone booth in the 
Commercial House with the pallor of his face accentuated. 
To buy this pine had been to him the entry into his own, 
but Luke Taylor would not give him time. To have the 
old man close the deal himself would rob Rowe of his 
coveted glory. And so much depended on that! The 
drawing of the new will — his future — Marcia Murray — 
He stood on the hotel steps. Helen’s car was across the 
way and while he eyed it surlily the girl herself crossed the 
street. She moved slowly and her face beneath the hat of 
brown straw was dark and troubled. She disappeared 
through the door of the bank. Rowe remained there some 
time. For the days he had put in at Pancake, for his 
scheming, his duplicity, he had nothing to show but the 
troubled look on that girl’s face. He was in doubt, with 
desperation mounting quickly. Oh, for another fort- 
night, a week — a few days! But he could delay no longer. 
He started along the wooden sidewalk. 

Jim Harris sat beside Wilcox the cashier and as Helen 
entered they stopped their talk and looked at the girl 
and then at one another. The sheriff was writing a check. 
Sim Burns lounged in a chair. Wes Hubbard scanned a 
calendar in obvious effort to appear unconscious of 
Helen’s presence, and a farmer from down river watched 
her curiously. 


TIMBER 


307 


She passed on to the one teller’s window, made a 
deposit, took a packet of papers from her skirt pocket 
and went into the tiny customers’ room. Soon a step 
sounded on the threshold of the room and she looked up 
to face Philip Rowe as he removed his hat. His black 
hair glistened, his mohair suit was sleek, his black eyes 
glittered ; his white skin seemed to shine, with smoothness, 
with slipperiness. 

“Miss Foraker,” he said and bowed, “may I come in?” 

He did not wait for a reply but entered, drawing the 
door closed behind him and settled into the chair on the 
other side of the small table. 

“I was going to call on you today,” he said. “Then I 
heard about the accident last night and thought you might 
not have time. But since you are in town we may as well 
talk.” 

A pause. Her silence challenged him. He moistened 
his lips, picking at the blotter, eyes on his uneasy fingers. 

“Perhaps I, being a stranger, am better able to judge 
your situation than you are — because I have perspective. 
I have seen people in similar circumstances, but I have 
never seen any one so hard pressed by public sentiment 
as you are — through no fault of your own, probably, ” 
with suavity. 

“One cannot help admiring your pluck, but did you 
ever stop to consider that the line which divides pluck 
from — shall we say foolhardiness? — is not very distinct? 
It is courageous to fight not only your neighbors, but the 
laws of the state and the financial depression, but is it wise, 
Miss Foraker? Be honest with yourself. Do you hope 
to beat the game?” 

He leaned forward, eyes on her face, steady and 


308 


TIMBER 


betraying none of the misgiving that the latent hostility 
in her stirred in him. She gave no indication of replying, 
so he went on. 

“I came to you in good faith and asked for an option. 
Had my intentions not been of the best I would have 
waited, for every one knew of the storm that was gather- 
ing about you. I didn’t want to take advantage of mis- 
fortune. I come to you again, Miss Foraker, asking you 
only to name a figure. It will mean a fortune to you. It 
will enable you to seek happiness and peace of mind in 
more congenial surroundings. We will not be niggardly. 
We will pay for value received. ” 

The suggestion of a bitter smile moved the girl’s lips. 

“And if I hold out? If I tell you again that my forest 
is not for sale? What then?” 

He settled back in his chair and laughed shortly. 

“Then the trouble may become a little — rougher. 
You have been warned of that.” 

His insinuation broke through her growing temper, 
touching suspicion. 

“That is your guess, you mean,” watching him closely- 

“Not a guess!” he flashed. “I happen to know /” 

“You are bluffing,” she challenged. “You are working 
in the dark. ” He leaned forward again. 

“I know what you know, that you have been warned 
repeatedly that, step by step, the warnings have proved 
to have foundation, that — ” 

“What warnings?” 

She laughed tantalizingly and he flashed: “Warnings 
of a committee of — ” 

He saw the triumphant smile sweep into her eyes with 
the leaping rage as she stood up quickly and cried: “So 


TIMBER 


309 


you know what no one else knows! I know of these 
warnings, my foreman knows, Humphrey Bryant, Doctor 
Pelly and a few others know, and for days they have tried 
to find who else knows. No one knows, but you and the 
other skulkers who have everything to gain by scaring 
me out!” 

Guilt crimsoned his face. He stammered something 
which she did not hear as she stepped past him and 
opened the door. The sheriff, Hubbard, Burns and 
Harris were grouped about the cashier’s desk; as she 
came out they looked at her and drew apart. 

Rowe was beside her. “I don’t know what you’re 
talking about,” he muttered, “but you’re making a 
grave charge. ” 

She wheeled to face him. “Grave is it? I hope the 
time will come when you’ll realize how grave it is, when 
I can bring you to answer it!” 

She stopped. Her scorching gaze ran from Rowe to 
that other group, to the three countrymen at the teller’s 
window who had turned to watch. She was unaware 
that the street door had opened and another man stood 
behind her, staring at the scene. 

“You, Citizens’ Committee!” she said. “You black- 
mailers!” 

They were all there, the interests which had schemed 
to undo her and the agencies they had used. For the 
first time she confronted them and all the pain and 
suspense which they had aroused was crystallized in 
righteous anger. 

There was a stirring in the group, a muttering, but 
with a gesture, made imperious by her rage, she stilled 
them. She had not lifted her voice. She had spoken her 


310 


TIMBER 


charge lowly and it was the poignancy of her wrath which 
gave her control over those men — that, and the con- 
sciousness of their guilt! 

“No, I’m going to talk now!” as Rowe stepped toward 
her and began to speak. “You’ve worked in the dark, 
you’ve struck from behind but don’t flatter yourselves 
that you’ve covered your tracks. You men — Jim 
Harris and his tools — you are the ones I mean, and let 
there be no misunderstanding! You have made a joke 
of law and justice in this county. You have stooped to 
the use of dynamite and fire to drive me out so Pontiac 
Power might profit and so Luke Taylor might make 
worthless slashings out of a growing forest! That speaks 
well for you, doesn’t it?” She laughed mirthlessly. 
“ Chief Pontiac Power and a millionaire lumberman using 
bomb and torch and blackmail against a penniless girl!” 

Harris stepped forward. 

“You’re putting yourself pretty thoroughly on record, 
young lady,” he said. “You’re going too far with your 
talk about lawlessness. You may find out that there’s a 
law which will protect the good name of — ” 

“Good name!” she scoffed under her breath. “Good 
name? Is it your good name, Jim Harris? Is your name 
good, Mr. Rowe?” 

“Hold your tongue!” Rowe cried in a shaking voice 
and his viciousness staggered her for the moment. “You 
will have an opportunity to prove these things you have 
said about these men, about me, about Mr. Taylor.” 

The leap of light in the eyes of the man behind Helen 
Foraker snapped Rowe’s gaze from her face and as he 
stared over her shoulder the sinister quality in his expres- 
sion deepened. 


TIMBER 


311 


“ There are limits — ” he began. 

A step sounded beside Helen. Breathing rapidly, she 
turned and saw John Taylor standing there. She did 
not see the glare he gave Phil Rowe, did not detect the 
bewilderment in Rowe’s face. Her heart paused in its 
wild measure. This was the man who had betrayed her, 
who had done more, even, than menace her forest. He 
belonged with these others — he, whose lips had been on 
hers! 

Then he spoke. 

“ There are, Phil; you’re right. There are limits to 
endurance. You’ve overstepped them.” 

His manner was quite easy, almost tolerant. 

“So you — ” Rowe began again. 

“You will keep still now.” John interrupted. “You 
will keep still,” voice rising, “or I’ll thrash you until 
you grovel on your knees before Miss Foraker!” 

Rowe drew back. A choking sound came from his 
throat and he shook his head. 

“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep out of 
this!” he cried, beside himself. “You’ve done enough 
now to damn you forever in the old man’s eyes! You’ve 
blocked me for the last time, Taylor!” 

John’s hand was on his shoulder, gripping into the 
flesh. Rowe winced and twisted to be away from that 
grip, away from the blazing eyes. 

He struck a quick blow, which glanced from John’s 
cheek bone and then cried aloud as he was lifted from his 
feet and slammed against the wall. He felt fierce breath 
in his face as he struggled and cursed, felt hard fingers 
at his throat, felt a fist like a knot of wood bash into one 
eye, felt his lips burst like grapes at another blow and 


312 


TIMBER 


found himself bruised and bleeding on the floor while 
men scuffled about him and Taylor struck again and again 
and cried: “Til break your spine — I'll kill you, Rowe!” 

They were on Taylor, trying to hold him, scrambling 
and shouting as he flung them off to be at Rowe again. 
And then the sheriff, drawing his revolver, brought it 
down smartly on John's head — and the fight stopped. 

John stood up, the sheriff holding his arm, shaking him. 

“That ought to be pretty good,” said Harris with a 
laugh. “You all heard him say, Til kill you, Rowe.' And 
look at Rowe's face! That ought to be about assault 
with intent to do great bodily harm less than the crime 
of murder, hadn't it?” to the sheriff. “We don’t want to 
bear down too hard!” 

Taylor felt his head and blinked as clear consciousness 
came back. He was being led down the street, up the 
court house steps, through the echoing hall; a barred 
door was closing. 

Helen Foraker had heard, had seen the enmity between 
Taylor and Rowe. She stared at John and as he dodged 
that first blow she turned and stumbled through the 
doorway and ran across the street, leaping into her car, 
fleeing for the sanctity of her forest where she could think 
and reason and try to straighten this thing out for her- 
self. 

She had driven him out, yet he had blocked Rowe in 
his purpose. He had betrayed her and today he had been 
her defender. The throbbing of her heart almost choked 
her: wild hope and abject misery blinded her. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


Pancake does not figure largely in the schedule of 
passenger trains, but the next morning the five o’clock 
north-bound stopped at the station, let off a pair of 
sleepy passengers, moved slowly ahead, stopped and 
backed into the switch, where the last car with “ Private” 
lettered on its doors was uncoupled. 

A curtain went up behind a screen and the thin face of 
Luke Taylor peered out from his stateroom. His lips 
moved and his old eyes roved the visible portion of the 
little town eagerly. 

The chef and porter were astir, very busy, very quiet. 

Luke’s arrival had been watched. Phil Rowe, hastening 
into his clothes, stopped long enough to peer out anxiously 
and then went on, arriving at the precise adjustment of 
his cravat with dispatch. 

Jim Harris rolled over, half hung out of bed, saw the 
car at the station and lolled back on his pillow, stretching 
and grinning. 

John Taylor, in a stinking cell of the jail, pressed his 
face against the steel bars of his small window to see. 
He had not slept, but had paced the floor all night. His 
hair was rumpled, face drawn and his blue eyes blazed 
with helpless fury as he watched Phil Rowe hasten down 
the street and mount the brass railed platform of his 
father’s private car. 

Rowe spoke quietly to the porter who replied in a 
313 


314 


TIMBER 


cautious whisper, but before the caller could sit down a 
muffled voice reached them. 

“You, Rowe?” 

“Yes, Mr. Taylor,” he replied outside the stateroom 
door. 

“Well, come in! Don’t stand there palaverin’!” 

From his rumpled bed Luke stared hard at his secre- 
tary, the chronic irritability which had been in his eyes 
yielding to amazement. For a long moment he studied the 
broken lips, the purple patch below one eye, the lump on a 
cheek bone. 

“Who the devil did that?” 

Rowe made a grimace. 

“Your son,” he said simply. A gleam of something 
like satisfaction leaped into the half closed eye and its 
normal mate. “We had a slight argument as to the 
advisability of your going ahead and buying this pine. 
It ended — this way. ” 

For a moment Luke said nothing and Rowe thought the 
thin lips moved in a half smile of sardonic pride. But 
a flush came into the face and anger showed in the old eyes. 

“He went that far? You’re sure that was the trouble? 
He fought you to stop this deal?” 

“And that’s only part of it, sir. He has raised — quite 
a disturbance.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“In jail.” 

Luke set his feet on the floor and stood up, night-shirt 
dangling about his shrunken calves. He was a stooped 
gaunt, scare-crow of a figure. 

“In jail, eh? For what?” 

“Assault.” 


TIMBER 


315 


For a moment the other stared at him, lips open. 

“You’re not lyin’ to me, Rowe?” Impulses were in 
conflict within him; he breathed faster. “It was that , 
was it? It wasn’t anything else? He did that because of 
me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Rowe maintained his composure by effort. He saw 
the strange admiration in the old man’s face, mingling 
with paternal instinct, with rage. 

“No. You wouldn’t lie — ” a sharp hiss of impatience 
slipped from Luke and rage alone remained in his face. 
“Jail, eh? Lucky for him — th’ cub. Lucky he don’t have 
to face me this mornin’ — after puttin’ that face on you — 
for trying to carry out my orders!” 

It was nine o’clock when young Wilcox, flattered and 
flustered, drove his automobile down to the station and 
backed it in beside the Taylor car. He cleared his throat 
nervously as Rowe helped the great Luke down the steps 
and got out of his seat to remove his hat and self-con- 
sciously acknowledge the introduction. 

Luke merely grunted at Wilcox and settled into the seat. 
He had nothing to say as the car rolled out of town and 
took up the twisting trail to the northward. He had on 
a linen duster, his hat was drawn low, amber glasses 
protected his eyes, and as soon as they were settled Rowe 
tucked a robe about his ankles. Within a mile, however, 
Luke kicked this protection irritably aside and glared at 
his secretary as though the accustomed precaution against 
chill were an affront. 

They topped a high ridge, made bald by repeated fires, 
and away before them spread the country, like a tinted 


316 


TIMBER 


carpet. Dried grass gave to lavender in the distance; 
the wilted foliage of the brush and small trees took on a 
counterfeit vividness; far to the north and westward a 
veil of smoke hazed the horizon. But it was not the 
expanse of devastation, not the ominous smoke veil, that 
caused Luke to sit forward sharply. It was the long, blue- 
green line of the pine trees, Foraker’s Folly, standing there 
in the middle distance. 

“ Pine? ” he asked tersely and Rowe answered and talked 
volubly. But Luke did not listen. He sank back when 
they dipped into the valley, straightened again when they 
could see the forest, this time with the crowns of dominant 
trees distinct against the sky. 

And then they were in the protecting cool of its shade, 
crossing the outside fire line, leaving the fringe of oak 
brush behind, driving into the clear stand of white pine. 

From afar their progress had been watched. Black 
Joe, perched in Watch Pine, had caught a reflected flash 
of light. He followed the progress with his glass, dividing 
his attention between it and the fire to the northward. 
He called down to Helen: 

“Big car makin’ in toward Snipe Meadow.” 

He offered to go over himself and watch, but the girl 
shook her head. In a moment she shoved her canoe into 
the river, paddled down stream, rounded two bends, 
beached and went ashore, stopping to listen, but hearing at 
first only the sough of wind in the tops. 

Wilcox looked around to smile into Luke’s face. 

“It isn’t the kind of pine you know, Mr. Taylor, 


[TIMBER 7 317 

} A j 

The slight gesture of a bony hand cut him off. Luke 
was leaning forward, goggles off, staring down the fire 
line which cleft the forest for half a mile before it dis- 
appeared over a low swell. His lips were parted, his 
breath fast. 

“Tolman says this is probably the best of it,” volun- , 
teered Rowe. “This was where the first photographs) 
were taken and — ” 

The old man did not care what Rowe had to say. He 
reached for the door of the car, shoved it open and stepped 
to the ground. He stood there, looking up and about, 
leaning on his gold headed stick. 

“Pine!” he muttered and cocked his head to listen 
to the talk of a thousand trees. He moved a few steps. 

“White Pine,” under his breath. “Michigan Pine — 
babies — baby pine!” 

No, it was not the pine he had known, not the massive 
poles, not the clean timber, not the ragged, high tops. 
It was brushy, with trunks still retaining dead branches. 
There were no four or five-log trees; there were few that 
his men would have respected. It was baby pine, but it 
was uniform. There were trees that would yield two good 
logs, as saw-logs go today; there were a few that would 
make three. And it was thick! It was solid, without a 
Norway, without a hardwood tree in sight. It was straight, 
like straight, slim children, and it talked as the pine he 
had known and loved and mastered had talked ! 

Oh, that whispering! It quickened his heart; it refreshed 
memories that had been dormant for years; it tapped 
wells of emotion that he had forgotten; it sent a flush to 
his cheeks, a bright light of greed to his old eyes. He 
panted. 


. 318 


TIMBER 


Rowe was beside him and Wilcox was leaving the car. 

“ There’s ten thousand acres like this,” Phil began, 
but again that arresting gesture silenced him. 

At Luke’s feet was a section stake. He half stumbled 
on it as he took a step and looked down. lie lifted his face 
high, then, that he might see the sun. Impatiently he 
handed Rowe his stick and moved to the north edge of 
the line. He brought his heels together and looked ahead 
and began to pace. Ten lengthy steps he took and came to 
a halt, looking to his left, counting with soundless move- 
ments of his lips; to the right, and counting again, 
checking each enumeration with fingers that trembled. 
Another ten yards; more counting. Another ten, and 
again the checking of trees that stood to right and 
left. 

Rowe and Wilcox stood in the fire line watching him, 
waiting, for Philip knew that this was no moment to 
interrupt. He watched his master disappear in the forest 
going toward the river ten yards at a time, now and then 
putting out a hand against a solid trunk for support 
because his limbs, though stronger than they had been 
in years, trembled with excitement. 

Fifty-five yards Luke went, and he had estimated 
the timber on a quarter of an acre. Tolman was right; 
Tolman had been conservative! His heart rapped his 
ribs as it had not done in years. There was no distress 
in its measure; joy only, joy such as he had not known 
in years, joy, the taste of which was sweet in his mouth; 
joy which gave him strength. 

Another ten — twenty — fifty-five — 

“Pine!” he whispered; and then aloud, “Michigan 
Pine!” 


TIMBER 


319 


He ceased his counting. He tilted his head to the talk 
fin the tops above him. 

! Another sound was manifest; the murmur of the 
Blueberry, and he moved on, emerging suddenly from the 
thick forest to the high bank of the river and there he 
stopped. It ran below him, crystal clear, emerald water 
over golden sand, swirling into a violet pool at his right. 
Across the way was a fringe of reeds, freshness itself 
caught in color and behind them was a stretch of 
swamp, dead cedar and vivid tamarack against the back- 
ground of more pine on the high land, 
j He did not see the canoe beached above him, did not 
notice the figure just starting into the forest, which stopped 
dead still behind trees to watch him. For a moment the 
. wind abated and the talk of the trees ran into the faintest 
breath while across the way a white throated sparrow 
broke into his sweet, sweet song, as clear as the waters 
of the river themselves. 

“0-o-o-oh, dear , dear, d-d-dear, d-d-dear, dear — ” 

Again his hand went out to the trunk of a tree, fingers 
gripping the bark this time with the tensity of a strange 
emotion. His face lifted to the clean sky and his heart 
opened to the song of the bird. 

11 0-o-o-oh, dear, dear, d-d-dear, d-d-dear, dear — ” 

He looked up at the crowns above him, the whispering 
tops of the pine trees; he turned to see the ranks of trees 
through which he had come, the trees he had counted. 
Something broke within him and light went from his eyes. 
Board feet! Always, he had looked at forests in the terms 
of board feet; today it was something else. There was 
more to this stand of baby pine than lumber, more than, 
i wealth. 


320 


TIMBER 


A breath caught in his throat and his eyes dimmed. He 
listened again and heard that time in the whispers of the 
tops an echo of his lost youth; the trees, the river, the 
wind, the birds — it was a symphony of all that he had 
ever held dearest, of all that he had been denied, but 
even then he did not know that sentiment had broken 
down the wall that long years of effort, that great material 
triumphs, that final disillusionment had built as its 
prison. He moved toward the nearest tree and put out 
his hand as though for support; but he did not need help 
to stand. His palms pressed the bark on either side the 
trunk; then stroked, gently, as a man will stroke some 
dear possession. 

“Pine!” he muttered — “Michigan Pine! Oh, God — 
I thank you — thank you! — ” 

He stood a moment watching, listening, feeling, smelling, 
letting his senses play with this great blessing which was 
within his grasp. Then he turned and started back into the 
forest, stride feeble but with returning strength, the 
strength of hope, of satisfaction — He went faster, with 
the haste of greed. 

Once again the forest was so many board feet — 

Helen Foraker watched him go. Then she sat down on 
the bank, legs dangling over the brink and slowly broke 
dead needles into bits as she stared abstractedly before 
her. There was in her eyes, behind the trouble, something 
like hope — a vision of an incredible opportunity. 

“Where’s the girl?” Luke asked as he emerged from 
the forest. 

“At her home, likely,” Rowe responded, startled by 


TIMBER 


321 


the eagerness of the query and by the light in the old 
man's face. 

“ Let’s see her now. By God, Rowe, Tolman was 
right!” 

“If you think it best, Mr. Taylor. There are things — ” 

“What things?” 

He paused, with a foot on the running board, but as 
he turned Rowe saw that this was no rebuke, that it was 
all interest and caution. 

“ It might be best to have you go over the local situation, 
let me explain what we have done, call in Harris and per- 
haps some others. It — it’s likely to be quite difficult. ” 

Seated in the car Luke said: 

“Maybe you’re right, Rowe. We won’t take any 
chances. Let’s go at it — 

“Mr. — Mr., whatever your name is, you don’t have 
to go so damned slow for me. I can stand a bump or two ! ” 

Upon the edge of Seven Mile Swamp Jim Harris stood 
in Charley Stump’s cabin. He had the old man by the 
wrist and Charley had sunk whimpering to one knee. 

“Afraid are you?” Harris snarled. “Afraid of what?” 

“I tell you, he’s been watchin’ me, Jim! He follered 
me.” 

“There’s nothing for you to be afraid of but me. 
He’s safe. We’ve got him locked up. I can lock you up, 
too, for the rest of your life, you blackmailer! You do as 
I say — if you throw me down, by God, you’ll do time!” 

He released his grip on the withered wrist and the old 
recluse rose, rubbing the flesh where that clutch had 
been — 

“All right, Jim — I’ll do as you say — Don’t send me 


322 


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to jail, Jim! Don’t send me to jail! — I’ll do it tomorrow 
— at dawn, Jim, unless it rains — 

“An’ Jim — you mean that, about tires for my safety?” 

“You’ll get your tires, all right — unless you go to jail. 
And you’ll go to jail if you don’t make good, or if you get 
caught!” 

That afternoon Rowe and Luke Taylor sat for long in 
the car on the siding at Pancake, shades drawn tight to 
keep out the sun, electric fans doing their best with the 
air. Rowe talked rapidly, careful of sequence and the 
other followed him closely. 

Later Jim Harris came in and the three talked. Before 
Jim rose to go, he said : 

“This feeling against her works for you. I’ve never 
seen so much resentment. Public opinion sure is playing 
into your hands, Mr. Taylor!” 

“Public opinion, hell!” snapped Luke. “I knew public 
opinion before you were born, Harris. Business is business. 
Sometimes it has to get a little rough, but don’t try to fool 
me, Harris; don’t try to pull any wool over my eyes.” 

With a close approach to confusion Jim made his exit 
while Phil Rowe covered his embarrassment, for his 
employer’s scornful gaze had included him, by fussing 
with a broken cigar. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The new day dawned ominously, with wind in the west 
and acrid smoke making the early sun like a huge orange, 
which faded to a silver disc as it moved upward. Last 
evening Luke had ordered his secretary to bid Helen 
Foraker come to him and Rowe had returned from the 
telephone, chagrined and ill tempered. 

“She won’t come,” he said hotly. “Wants to talk 
but insists on doing it at home. ” 

“Wants me to come there, eh? Why?” 

“Says she has to be there because of the fires all 
around.” He flashed a covert look at the other. “I told 
her it was impossible for you to come. ” 

“What in hell’d you say that for? Rowe, you’re a 
damned fool. Wants me to come, does she? By God, 
I’ll run that rabbit into her warren. Get a car! We’ll 
be there in time to curl her hair for her!” 

And so in the blue-gray dawn Rowe took the old man 
out of Pancake, toward the forest and the girl who had 
tossed restlessly through the night. 

Since the day before yesterday she had been in turmoil. 
John Taylor, fighting for her, fighting with his fists, 
with high rage for her enemies in his face! It knocked her 
assurance. Could that fight have been a fraud? she asked 
herself, and for the moment hoped that it had been because 
such truth would save her from the humiliation of doubting 
that she had been justified in sending him from her house. 
If he fought for her now, she had been mistaken; she had 
323 


r 324 


TIMBER 


jumped at a faulty conclusion; the evidence which had 
seemed so weighty against him was not above question; 
she had been wrong when she sent him from her. Or he 
might have been her enemy and have broken with his 
conspirators — or he might actually be helping her for 
some unknown reason — she could not picture him, now, 
as a deliberate plotter against her well-being — 

When she was in the worst of this bewilderment, 
Humphrey Bryant had telephoned, talking of other 
matters rather absently; then he had told her that Taylor 
was under arrest, that his arraignment had been put over 
a day. “ They’re fighting among themselves,” he said as 
though, perhaps, he doubted that explanation. 

Yesterday she had watched Luke Taylor in her forest, 
had watched his restless old face find peace; had seen 
j him stop and touch a pine trunk with all the affection that 
!, a man could put into a gesture; had heard him thank his 
' God for her forest — His hardness had melted there and 
inspiration had come to her. 

Black Joe had come in from the mill with a message 
for Aunty May; she had only half listened to that but 
before he turned to go he said: 

“ They’re holdin’ young Taylor in jail, I hear — I told 
him,” — with a twist of his head — “Jim Harris’d get 
him — I told him; he’s got sand, he has, but not much 
sense. I’m going in tomorrow if it rains an’ get him out. ” 
He walked away and Helen tried to call out to him, 
tried to make herself beg for an explanation, but she could 
not, and she did not know whether fear of humiliation or 
. fear that the light hope in her would be blasted kept her 
: silent — 

k v All night she tossed, hearing the clinking of Pauguk’s 


TIMBER 


325 

chain as the wolf dog moved restlessly as smoke kept her 
instinctive fear of fire aroused. 

I She was up before dawn, finishing breakfast as light 
and wind grew stronger — 

John Taylor sprang from sound sleep in his cell. The 
sheriff was unbolting the door to bring in a plate of food. 

“ When are you fellows going to give me a chance to pay 
a fine and get out of here?” John asked. 

“In a rush?” The sheriff tried to be jocose. 

“I’m about as crazy to get out as Jim Harris is to keep 
me in!” the other burst out. “If I’m not loose today 
there’ll be something bitter for a crowd of you to swallow ! ” 

The genuineness of his anger shocked the officer. 

“You’ll be took care of,” he said. “The judge’ll get 
around about nine, I expect.” 

The men were going on patrol. Black Joe, glass in hand, 
descended from Watch Pine, shaking his head. It was no 
use; he could not see forty rods through the smoke. 

Pauguk stiffened, ears cocked and then a car came 
through the murk and stopped before the door of the big 
house and Philip Rowe got out to confront Helen. He 
removed his hat and bowed stiffly; his bruised lips and 
swollen eye made him grotesque and the smile he forced 
made him hideous. 

“Miss Foraker, Mr. Luke Taylor is here.’’^ 

She looked at the old man, getting to the ground. ”. He 
leaned heavily on his stick today; he was stooped and 
his clothing hung loosely about his withered frame. His 
I thin lips were parted and he, breathed ^rapidly, as_though ' 
this were great effort. r 


326 


TIMBER 


Here stood the great Luke Taylor! Here stood this 
arch devastator, this man who had made waste of forests, 
this man who had been ruthless and cruel and greedy; 
but who yesterday had wept as he listened to a bird 
singing in Foraker’s Folly! 

“You may come in,” she said, as though she conferred 
a measurable favor. 

They entered the living room silently. Helen turned 
an arm chair to face her desk and stood by it while Taylor, 
still without speaking, moved slowly forward and seated 
himself stiffly. Then she turned to her desk and sat 
down. She had ignored Rowe completely; she rested her 
hands on the chair arms and looked directly into the cold 
blue eyes of the old man. 

However, Rowe was the first of the three to speak. 

He put down his hat and drew up a chair for himself. 
He was raging, but he covered that rage; his case was 
all but lost and he fought humiliation and anger to save 
what he might of the ruin of his hopes. He cleared his 
throat nervously. 

“In our first talk, Miss Foraker, I outlined Mr. Taylor’s 
wants. I tried to make it clear that we were willing to 
pay a very fair figure and that the terms would be such 
as would enable you to realize on your investment and 
your work.” 

Helen moved ever so slightly with a suggestion of 
weariness, and folded her hands as though this was some- 
thing that must be endured. 

[% “Since that time many things have happened which 
must be considered factors in the case. It is to be 
[ regretted that you have misunderstood my motives, 
tand have seen fit to think that Mr. Taylor comes here 


! TIMBER 


327 


as an agressive, unscrupulous enemy. He comes on a 
straight business proposition.” 

He hitched his chair forward, indicating that after this 
preamble they could get down to business. He started to 
speak, checked himself and rubbed his palms together, 
as if considering. But before he could proceed the girl 
spoke. Her voice was low and she directed what she had 
to say at Taylor himself, who sat eyeing her steadily. 

“I have told Mr. Rowe that my forest was not for sale. 
Evidently, he does not yet understand. I did not ask 
you here today to talk of selling. ” 

“Not to talk selling!” Rowe cried. “What then?” 

Again he was ignored for Helen did not remove her 
gaze from Luke as she said: “It seems that I have few 
confidences from the public. Consequently, there are 
not many things for me to explain. Mr. Rowe,” there 
was in the name the slightest amount of bitterness, “has 
indicated that I need help and that there is no help in 
sight. He is right, quite largely. That is why I wanted to 
talk to you today, Mr. Taylor. I need help. I want you 
to help me.” 

Luke’s start was confined to the change in his eyes; 
they blinked once and in that blink their absorption gave 
way to amazement. 

“To help you f” cried Rowe derisively. 

Then for the first time the girl turned to him. “Yes, 
Mr. Rowe; you appear to understand.” 

“I don’t understand at all! You say you are determined 
not to sell; yet you are asking Mr. Taylor for help!” 

The girl looked at Luke as though she hoped he would 
speak, giving her an opportunity to put her proposal 
directly to him, not through Rowe; but the old man 


328 


TIMBER 


sat with chin drawn against his chest. His eyes still 
showed amazement and in their depths was a gleam that 
might have been admiration — as he would have admired 
while he planned to undo a man who had braved his wrath. 
Still, he did not speak and after a moment Helen addressed 
Rowe. 

“I don’t want to sell. I want Mr. Taylor to give me 
the help I need so I will not be forced to sell. I have 
come to a parting of the ways. I can no longer go on with 
my present resources; the financial situation is against 
me. My property is not taking care of itself yet; obliga- 
tions are due; I have suffered the loss of my water-power, 
which cuts off all my income and repairs mean an outlay 
of money at once.” 

“And you ask Mr. Taylor to help in this hair-brained 
adventure? ” 

“ I ask his help in carrying my pine until the investment 
is ripe, so I may follow through a plan which has been 
followed for nearly fifty years and needs a few years 
more.” 

Rowe sat back with a whiff of amazement. He looked 
at Luke and smiled, but the old man did not respond. 
His eyes were still on the girl’s face. 

Rowe touched his bruised lips absently. “That’s 
amusing,” sardonically. “Quite amusing, Miss Foraker. 
Quite the most preposterous request I have ever heard 
made!” 

“It is unusual, I understand. Mr Taylor seems to be 
my last chance. I — I don’t care much about asking 
this of him, ” with a slight hesitancy. 

“This is so amusing that it’s interesting,” said Rowe. “ I 
take it you want a loan. How much — and for how long£? 


TIMBER 


329 


“I don’t know.” 

“Don’t know!” 

She shook her head. “ Only in a general way. It depends 
on what happens to me and to the lumber market. I need 
thirty thousand dollars at once. That is to take care of a 
mortgage coming due and rebuild my dam and give me 
a small working capital. I may need as much more next 
spring; perhaps a greater amount. If my taxes are 
increased as the township officers have the authority to 
increase them under the present law, I will need help 
there. I will need loans from time to time until I can 
begin to make my regular turn-over — until I can start 
with a full annual cutting budget.” 

“A what? Oh, and then you do plan to cut this timber, 
sometime! When, Miss Foraker?” 

“I can’t tell you that exactly. It depends on market 
values and interest rates and how much capital I must 
put in — The cut begins when the stumpage value on 
approximately two hundred acres of timber is equal to 
the current carrying charges. ” 

Rowe drew a hand back over his sleek hair. “Why 
the two hundred when you have ten thousand?” he asked. 
“You’re sure of decent prices now and — you don’t know 
how many more risks you will have to run in the future — 
risks and difficulties and unpleasant circumstances, Miss 
Foraker. Our proposition is to take over the whole block; 
we’re not interested in a little fraction. Why the two 
hundred, if I may ask?” 

“Because I’m trying to establish a forest business, Mr. 
Rowe, a forest business in which the annual income meets 
carrying charges and gradually amortizes the capital 
investment. ” 


330 


TIMBER 


She waited. Rowe frowned. Luke blinked again. She 
sighed briefly, as though this bored her. 

“A peculiar business,” Rowe laughed, “that heads 
straight into bankruptcy for the sake of an abstract idea. ” 

“Is it peculiar business to keep the capital invested 
well invested? Or to expect that the business should 
yield fair returns on the capital, Mr. Rowe? Is it unusual 
when the early period of a new business requires increasing 
investments with a growing burden of compounding 
interest, all of which are returned and multiplied when 
the business becomes established and its turn-over 
regular?” 

“Theory, Miss Foraker. You’re trying to apply very 
fine-sounding phrases to an enterprise which hasn’t 
been proven. A real business does not refuse to sell its 
products when they’re ready for market and when the 
firm is embarrassed by the demands of its creditors, you 
know.” 

“Nor does a factory sell its unfinished products, Mr. 
Rowe. My timber is merchantable, but it is not ripe. 
If you were a stock grower and owned a good calf which 
might bring ten dollars for veal, you would resent it if 
some one insisted that you sell when you knew that by 
keeping the calf until it matured, even though it cost you 
for care and feed and involved risk, it would bring ten or 
twenty times that price as a pure-bred cow. I’m in the 
position of such a stock grower. My volume growth of 
timber is increasing, increasing faster than the carrying 
charges, and real quality increment has just commenced 
to show. What are northern pine uppers quoted at now, 
Mr. Rowe? Then there is the increment of price due to 
the national timber shortage which sent white pine from 


TIMBER 


331 


twenty-five dollars a thousand to over two hundred and 
fifty. What average annual per cent of increase does that 
represent? And do you see any signs yet that the up-curve 
as flattening out? And why is it unreasonable for me to 
consider these things in my forest business? ” 

When she began this argument Rowe’s eyes had strayed 
out the window, as if watching for an arrival; he turned 
his head as though listening for an anticipated sound, 
but when she stopped Luke Taylor gave a slight twitching 
gesture to one hand and his secretary plucked at a crease 
in his pant leg and attempted a superior smile, unconvinc- 
ing because of the confusion growing in his eyes. 

“The head of the class, Miss Foraker,” with an ironic 
nod. “But quite a long ways from our proposition. To 
get back where we started; what stumpage value do you 
place on the whole block?” 

Helen sighed sharply and looked again at Luke. His 
cold eyes were on her, lighted with something that might 
have been interest, that might as well have been scorn. 

“I have tried to tell you that this business is not for 
sale. No offer would be satisfactory, but I shall soon have 
timber for sale, about two hundred acres each year. I will 
want to harvest it myself, of course, because no one else 
would understand the job, any more than a stranger 
could successfully handle another man’s farm without 
making mistakes. The stumpage value should come to 
around twenty dollars a thousand. Your cruiser has 
reported on that, beyond a doubt, and it will increase as 
the output becomes steady and special markets are 
developed.” 

“You can’t get away from that idea of continuous 
output, can you? Honestly, considering everything, what 


332 


TIMBER 


you’ve been through, what you’re going through right 
now, do you think it practical?” 

“I am as insistent on it as you are on scaring me. I 
know what you’ve been up to, you and your friends. 
You’ve backed me into a corner. There’s no place to 
turn and that is why I have to come to you, Mr. Taylor, 
for help.” 

She turned to address Luke, hands on her chair arms, 
leaning forward eagerly. He did not change a muscle, 
a line of expression; he waited, and Rowe waited. Her 
voice was not so steady when she started in again: 

“When we commence to •turn over, Mr. Taylor, we 
should produce about four million feet a year — indefi- 
nitely. But from the time the cutting starts there will be 
an increasing amount for fifty years because each year, 
for fifty years, there will be another year’s growth on 
the balance of the stand, until the last cut of the first 
rotation would be a hundred years old. That would 
be very nice pine, Mr. Taylor, even compared to the pine 
you cut yourself in Michigan — ” 

The old man’s mouth worked briefly and he swallowed ; 
otherwise, no movement. 

“And during all those years there will be a steady 
pick-up in quality. Dense pine cleans itself fast after 
fifty years — and we will be near the peak of the national 
shortage, then. There should be prices, Mr. Taylor — 
big prices, to say nothing of the need it will fill — When 
the last block of the hundred-year-old pine was going 
through the mill the first block will be back again, fifty 
years old and ready, and from then on there would always 
be a fifty-year-old lot ready for the saw — always, Mr. 
Taylor — always — every year /” 


TIMBER 


333 


She brought a fist down on her chair arm and shifted 
,her position slightly. In the pause, Rowe stirred. 

“And every year the interest keeps piling up, and the 
risks — You’ve really considered the risks, Miss Foraker, 
or do you just talk about them?” 

“Risks!” she cried in contempt. “I’ve lived with 
risks since I can remember, Mr. Rowe. Lived with risks 
from fire to moles — and other underground workers ! 
Because of those risks I must provide the forest with 
a margin of safety, as in any other business. My 
margin of safety is in the quality growth and increasing 
markets. If I cut too soon, I cancel my insurance of a 
future; I can’t cut now and keep my capital intact. 
I will not do either because there is a chance for help left. 
Mr. Taylor is that chance. He could carry my pine until 
it is self-supporting; that will be only a few years, and 
then — forever after — ” 

She stopped speaking, for her voice had tightened. 

Rowe spoke again: “Foraker’s Folly! It seems to have 
been well named! Continuous crops from the same soil 
without putting anything back? That’s considered bad 
business in agriculture. Anyhow, pine won’t follow pine. 
Or will it, according to your unproven theories?” 

The girl looked at him again, forcing herself to remain 
patient. 

“I am reasonably confident it will, Mr. Rowe, and 
quite sure that the soil will hold up. You see, ninety- 
seven per cent of pine cellulose comes from the air instead 
of the soil. If you won’t take my word, I can show you, ” 
gesturing toward the shelves of books. “Properly tended 
forest soil gets better for — well, for at least a good many 
years. Do you know of the Sihlwald at Zurick, for 


334 


TIMBER 


instance, Mr. Rowe? Of course, the Swiss may be wrong; 
they’ve only been growing timber on the same land for 
six or seven centuries, ” looking down at her hands 
demurely. 

“Pine trees produce pine seed and that seed will grow 
more pine trees. My books show that we netted over a 
thousand dollars on seed harvested and sold to the 
commercial nurseries last year. I hope that this item 
will almost offset the cost of growing our own seedlings 
and replanting when we’re finally under way.” 

Rowe’s color was rising. He was conscious that Luke 
was looking at him. He was out of his depth, challenging 
statements which concerned facts new to him; he was 
losing his temper. But it was win or lose, now! This 
was the thing for which he had come to Pancake: to cow 
this girl. If he lost in this interview, he would lose his 
standing with Luke and with that, all that he desired 
would go, as well! 

“This gets better and better,” he remarked sarcasti- 
cally. “You are asking Mr. Taylor for help and you don’t 
know how much you need or how long you will need it. 
And you’re asking this because somebody has done some- 
thing somewhere else. Do you actually know your 
capital investment, Miss Foraker?” 

“Mr. Taylor may check my books. They are complete, 
from the time my father began.” 

“In due season, perhaps, should he have — any curi- 
osity.” He waved his hand, trying to be casual in his 
desperation. He could not stop, now. Luke was watching 
him, the eyes of the girl challenged him. He blundered on. 

“Your whole proposition is hinged on higher prices 
and a purely hypothetical timber shortage. In six months 


TIMBER 


333 


the lumber market will be busted flat. I suppose you’ll 
resurrect the Lumber Trust and ignore the billions of 
feet left in the South and the thousands of billions out on 
the Coast. What about that, for instance?” 

“There is timber — billions of feet. There was once in 
Michigan. Perhaps Mr. Taylor used to think there was 
enough here to last forever. Perhaps he had friends who 
moved into the southern pineries and who are junking 
their mills now and getting ready to move into the Pacific 
Coast States. The market may slump; everything is 
going to slump for a time; it’s natural reaction — 

“But the timber is going and in New England they’re 
sawing box wood out of pine trees that stand in fields 
which were cultivated at the time of the Civil War. 
Your shoes, your clothes probably were shipped to Detroit 
in boxes made of that stuff. Why? Because it’s grown on 
the ground and the manufacturers are tired of paying 
freight rates on material. Why, I can raise and sell 
white pine at Buffalo for less than the freight alone on 
Oregon fir and — ” 

“Oh, freight rates! A socialistic mess! They’ll come 
down; and besides, you’ve just admitted that there is 
timber — timber in Canada and all sorts of places. 
Now let’s quit this and get down to our proposition. 
Will you—” 

Luke stirred and hitched himself nearly erect. 

“Oh, shut up, Rowe! When you don’t make a fool of 
yourself with your questions, this young woman does 
with her answers!” 

A moment of silence while Luke glared at Rowe. To 
ridicule and curse had been habitual, but now there was 
something new in his face, a fresh bitterness, a disdain, 


336 


TIMBER 


a fading trust, that made the other go cold. The old 
man turned to the girl, and his gesture marked the 
collapse of years of scheming and service and hope that 
Philip Rowe had erected. 

“ You’ve been talkin' a lot of moonshine!" Luke said 
sharply. “Like th' rest of your doddy generation — 
Moonshine! But you make a case, th' sort of case that’d 
convince a lot of old women!" He ran a hand over his 
chin and his eyes flashed. 

“You need money all right. It'd do you no good to 
deny that and try to bluff me, but you've got your cheek, 
cornin' to me for help!" 

Helen’s head was dropped forward a bit, arms folded. 
She did not flinch as he made the charge. Her eyes, very 
somber, gave him stare for stare. “You are the only 
man I know who can realize the value — and who has 
the money. That is why I come to you. I would rather 
go somewhere else — but there is no choice. " 

“You’re high an' mighty for a begger!" he scoffed. 
“You’re brazen!" 

“I am only saying what I think, as you are." 

He rubbed his chin again and his lips worked. 

“And what makes you think you've got a chance with 
me?" he burst out. “I don't want to back you. I want 
this stuff myself. That's why I sent Rowe up here, to 
make a bargain. I come to buy somethin' an' you're 
in a pinch, where you've got to sell; I offered to do th’ 
right thing an' by the Lord Harry you won't listen — but 
come askin' favors from me ! " His brittle voice was louder. 

“Yes, Mr. Taylor, that is it. I do not want to sell, so 
I ask you to help me past the point where I might be 
forced to sell." 


TIMBER 


337 


He sat back, tapping the chair arms briskly with his 
palms. “You have got cheek! Cheek? — Never seen it 
before! 

“ You won’t listen to me when I want to buy, but expect 
me to listen to you when you want my money — an’ 
after you’ve filled that young cub’s head full of moonshine 
an’ turned him against his father — after I thought I’d 
found something in him!” He lifted his hand and a 
quick flush came into Helen’s cheeks and Rowe, watching 
her, detected something that was almost fright in her 
expression. “I sent him up here, a worthless cub; he 
makes good, where I’d ’ve said nobody could make good. 
He makes a fine start an’ for th’ first time since he was 
a kid I was — proud of him. And then you pumped moon- 
shine into him until his head’s addled. He called on me 
for backin’ in some pine deal and gets me all worked up! 
I send Rowe here to investigate and find that th’ cub 
don’t want to buy, but wants to invest in your damned 
moonshine!” He was gripping the chair arms now, 
leaning forward, and his eyes were very pale against 
the dark mask of his anger. 

“He’s so full of your theories that he don’t even expect 
he’ll have trouble in convincing me — a practical man. 
And then when he finds out I won’t have it, that I won’t 
back him, what does he do? He stands in my way, by 
damn! He fights his own father when he tries to buy this 
Pine! He tries to do me at every turn so ’s to help you, 
and ends up in jail because he beats up my — my book- 
keeper!” He spat out the last words venomously as he 
glared at Rowe. 

One of the girl’s hands went slowly to her breast and 
she made as if to rise from her chair. Her lips were parted 


338 


TIMBER 


and the flush which had gone into her cheeks drained 
until they were parchment white. “Not that,” she said 
weakly. 

“Just that!” The old man’s voice was a rasp. “He’s 
fought me to a standstill! He’s fought me because you 
pumped him full of your damned moonshine, but that 
can’t stop me — Nothin’ can stop me now. I’ve had every- 
thing I’ve ever wanted until now. I want this Pine and 
you can’t stop me!” 

She had settled back to her chair and sickness swept 
through her — and a rebound of great strength — and 
then fresh dismay — His words rang in her ears as she 
drove back the tumult, crowding all the conflicting factors 
out of her consciousness, laying bare this one problem. She 
rose and spoke: 

“You have had everything you wanted, Mr. Taylor? — 
Until now? — And so have I. But it happens now that 
we both want the same thing. I want it and you want 
it, but I am not going to let you have it, and you are 
going to let me keep it, safe — always. ” 

“Eh?” He was stung by her confidence. “Vm going 
to help you! How’s that? What makes you think 
that ?” 

“This,” she said simply. “You think you have had 
everything you ever wanted. That is not so. You have 
missed the biggest thing, Mr. Taylor; you have missed 
contentment. ” She was holding to the edge of her desk 
with one hand to keep her body steady; she spoke slowly, 
so her voice would be clear; her heart seemed to have 
been stopped. 

“I never saw you before yesterday, but I know a great 
deal about you. Men still tell stories of your camps. 


TIMBER 


339 


I had a man here only two years ago who worked with 
you on the Saginaw. Your — your son has told me 
about you. 

“Your — your bookkeeper, here, told me in our first 
talk that you wanted this pine, because — well, not for 
the money. You want it because it will take you back to 
those days when you were happier, when you thought 
you were contented — ” 

“Darned moonshine! — Moonshine, like the rest!” 

“No, Mr. Taylor.” She did not lift her voice beyond 
its low pitch. “My father felt the same way; all you 
men who logged off Michigan pine lands felt lost when the 
last drive went down — I know — I was a little girl with 
them. And I saw you, yesterday, walking in my forest, 
walking in Michigan white pine. I think I know something 
of how you felt — ” 

His eyes fell away from her face; then flashed back. 
She took a step nearer him. 

“They’re gone, the old Michigan stands, Mr. Taylor, 
but there’s a new forest coming on, here — we’re in the 
heart of it. If I should sell to you and you should run 
twenty million a year, which was big those days, but isn’t 
now — Foraker’s Folly wouldn’t last long. But if we 
go through with my father’s plan — you and I — we 
can cut four million and up a year — forever. ” 

“ Moonshine ! It’s — ” 

“No, it isn’t a dream, Mr. Taylor!” voice lifting. “It’s 
real! It’s as real as those trees outside my house! The 
last faller hasn’t cried, ‘ Timber!’ for the last Michigan 
white pine! We haven’t seen the last of it going down 
iced roads to the dumps; we haven’t seen the Blueberry 
bank-full in the winter time with white pine logs for 


340 


TIMBER 


the last time! We haven’t seen the last drive; we 
haven’t heard the last pine log going against a saw here 
in Michigan; we haven’t seen the last pond full of them, 
floating fine and high — cork pine, Mr. Taylor — with 
the sun bringing on the resin blisters on them so you 
can smell it — as you can smell the new lumber in the 
yard — and the big pile of fine sawdust — ” 

She paused and the uneasy wind soughed in the tops 
outside. The girl smiled, lips tremulous, as though tears 
smarted at her eyes. “ It isn’t a big operation, Mr. Taylor, 
but it will go on and on forever! There’ll never be a 
Michigan man who is lonesome for white pine who can’t 
walk through a stand of it, who can’t watch ’em creeping 
up the slide, who can’t feel the corks in his boots biting 
into the bark — if he wants to — It could be wiped out 
in a very few winters, Mr. Taylor. I want it to go on 
forever — ” 

She clasped her hands lightly before her and looked 
down on him with that sweet, confident smile. She saw 
the amazement in his face, the mist in his eyes. She saw 
him swallow, and then he snapped: “Damn moonshine, 
I tell you! Damn — ” 

Outside, Pauguk whined sharply. A shout. A horse 
galloping. Black Joe ran past the house calling a question 
to the patrolman who rode out of the smoke. 

“For God’s sake get out there! It’s south of the old 
cranberry marsh in the timber and cornin’ like hell. 
Somebody smashed the telephone so I couldn’t call!” 

For a moment the girl poised before Luke Taylor. 
Then fright came into her eyes and she ran out the door. 
Phil Rowe started and turned and smiled — as though 
he had suddenly remembered some pleasurable thing. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Bobby Kildare ran shrieking across the dooryard to 
the big bell and began ringing furiously. In the garage 
Joe and the cook lowered the platform of fire extinguishers 
to the car and clamped it fast. Helen was on the driver’s 
seat, waiting for Aunty May who hurried toward her. 

“’Phone Raymer at the mill to turn out everybody. 
Keep Bobby ringing and Milt will hear the bell. Tell him 
to send all men to me on lot eighteen — eighteen — 
south of the old cranberry marsh. Remember that: 
Eighteen, south of the marsh.” She spoke slowly and 
very distinctly. 

“Have Milt get Sim Burns on the wire and make him 
come here with men. Threaten him if he tries to lie down. 
You stay by the telephone when he is through and get 
Humphrey Bryant and have him send help from Pancake, 
if we send word to you we need it. 

“All ready, Joe?” 

“Let her go!” 

The motor spun; the exhaust roared in the small 
building; the car shot forward and careening drunkenly 
rounded the house, throwing sand from the ruts and 
rocking the chemical tanks on its platform. With throttle 
open to the last notch the girl, heart racing with her 
motor, tore into the murk, the smell of burning pine 
growing strong in her nostrils. They crossed the pole 
bridge that spanned the river with a bouncing and a 
terrific clatter, due west, then north, slowing on the turns, 
341 


342 


TIMBER 


into denser smoke with each rod traveled; to the west- 
ward again and Helen fancied she could feel the heat of 
burning wood in her face. 

“ There she is!” cried Joe. 

The brakes set and the car stopped in twice its length. 

They were on the ground in an instant. Beauchamp 
and Joe tugging at the chemical tanks, running forward 
along the north-and-south fire line and then plunging into 
the forest to meet the advancing flames. A muffled 
shouting behind them; a thwacking of a stick on flesh, 
and a patrolman galloped up, bringing his apparatus. 

“Get in there, Thatcher,” Helen said shortly. “There 
are three others. Take two tanks. ” 

A brass cylinder in either hand the man sped away, the 
girl behind him. The flames had started from the western 
boundary of the forest and on this fire line, a half mile 
in, they could feel their heat, could hear the snap and 
crackle. The smoke smarted the girl’s eyes as she ran 
forward; it bit her throat and lungs and nostrils. 

The forest was a weird company of indistinct tree 
trunks, the nearest swathed in flowing smoke, those a 
rod away barely distinguishable. A figure moved before 
Helen, crouched, going slowly toward the north: Black 
Joe his tank upended and nozzle playing on the angry 
tongues of red flame licking along the ground, feeding 
on dead needles and duff, going swiftly up the stems of 
small brush, leaping here and there for a hold on a tree 
trunk, falling back, trying again — the spit of the 
chemical blotted tongues out, the duff yielded dense 
smoke instead of flame, the fire sputtered angrily as it 
was torn loose from its hold on firm wood — 

She moved beside Black Joe without speaking, straining 


TIMBER 


343 


her eyes, listening. She heard a shout from beyond and 
a voice lifted in quick answer. The tank sputtered and j 
went dead. Joe ran back and came with the other fresh 
one he had brought from the car; but before it could 
go into play the flames that he had beaten down had found 
hold again. Their roots were deep in that pitchy duff and 
he was forced to fight a second time for ground he had 
already won. 

The girl left him and went on. The fire was advanc- 
ing from west to east, spreading north and south in a 
fan-shaped area as the wind drove it on. She passed 
Beauchamp, who coughed as he told her that he, too, 
had emptied a tank and was covering the same ground 
for a second time. She came on the patrolman who had 
reported the fire. 

All along she could see those hungry, reaching tongues. 
One had found hold on a dead branch six feet up a tree 
and was waxing stalwart on the secreted pitch. She seized 
a stick and beat it out, shielding her face from the heat 
with the other arm — and ran on, to see flames crawling 
up other trees, like nimble devils. 

She heard a horse snorting loudly as he came near with 
a cart of tanks and, a working idea of the size and progress 
of the fire in her mind, she stumbled back to join the 
fighters who gathered about. 

“ Joe, Thatcher, Beauchamp; you handle the chemicals. 
Til refill. You,” to the other patrolman, “bring in the 
empties and take out live ones. Make every pint count. 
It's hot and running fast. ” 

As she tore the lid from the cask of soda and opened 
the water keg, she planned her battle; three men to 
fight, one man to carry. A tank was not good for more 


344 


TIMBER 


than a hundred feet of fire front in this heat. Three 
hundred feet — She shook her head. She needed help! 

Another patrolman brought his lathered horse to a stop. 

“It’s all in this block,” Helen said, without stopping 
her work. “Take your apparatus straight ahead. You’ll 
stay in this east-and-west line. The fire will be north of 
you and your job is to keep this flank from crossing 
the line. You’ll have help as soon as I can spare men.” 

The man yelled at his horse. The frightened animal 
was trying to back and turn and had no terror of the 
whip. Helen seized the bridle and led him forward, then 
sprang aside as he lurched on. Her helper emerged. 
His eyebrows were gone, she saw. He peered close into 
her face, fright stamped on his features and stared so a 
moment before he gasped: 

“They can’t hold it. Soon’s they get it knocked 
down — the wind — the wind throws her along again. ” 

The crackle and pop of burning wood was louder, 
nearer, the heat more intense, smoke thicker — greenish, 
yellow smoke, coming in puffs that spread about her and 
swirled and clung to the ground and then shot upward — 
or rolled along among the trees. 

Black Joe came on a run. 

“It’s hotter ’n th’ hubs of hell! It’ll go into the tops 
if we don’t kill it — and up there once, she’ll go clear to 
th’ river!” 

“I know, Joe. Listen!” From afar off a feeble, thin 
cry came through the confusion of heavier sounds: the 
wail of an automobile siren. 

It rose and fell, approached and receded in the face 
of fire sounds, but it was constant and seemed to be 
shrieking a warning in words: “Git outta the way! 


TIMBER 


345 


We're a-comin’ — we're a-comin’ — we couldn’t stop if 
we wanted to — we're a-comin' — a-comin’ — now!” 

“ That's Raymer and help!” the girl cried and laughed 
excitedly. 

They came clanking through the smoke, Raymer and 
Goddard, Thad Parker and four others from the mill. 
They clustered about the girl, but before they could 
question, she was giving orders. One by one she assigned 
them to their work, Goddard with a crew to backfire from 
the next fire line eastward, Black Joe to go on a horse 
and circle the entire burning area. Raymer to the northern 
flank. They scattered and Helen, relieved of actual 
labor, turned her car about and drove back a half mile 
to a vantage point. 

The snapping became sharp reports, like pistol shots. 
A freakish wind, set up by the rising heat, eddied about, 
slapping downward and up, this way and that, scattering 
brands as it went. For a moment a strange silence, then 
the popping again. Along the line of advancing fire the 
men worked, shirts smoking as they played their chemicals. 
Their hair singed, their cheeks blistered; lungs became 
raw and eyes streamed water. They retreated slowly, 
always retreated. They could not advance, could not 
even make a stand. Checked here, the fire found an 
opening there and worked into fresh fuel; subdued in this 
place, it gathered strength elsewhere, and all the time it 
became more aspiring, leaping higher on trunks, clinging 
longer to dead branches, running up the lichen-covered 
bark, licking for the green needles, falling back, waiting, 
gathering strength and trying again. On the flanks the 
advance of flame was slower, the heat not so great, the 
smoke not so dense. They could hold the fire from 


346 


TIMBER 


progress there — But that center kept on relentlessly ! 

From the tool cache Goddard brought his equipment 
and men ran along the first fire line to the eastward of 
the blaze, igniting the duff and brush until forty rods 
of fire worked backward against the wind slowly to meet 
the fire which came on toward it. Men paced the fire 
fine, holding their tortured eyes open to watch for brands 
that might cross the strip and fall into the timber on the 
far side to start new fires. To combat this menace they 
carried wet sacks. 

Another car arrived, driven by the clerk of Lincoln 
township, bringing more aid; men ran to the work on 
Helen’s orders and the car drove off to summon others. 

Black Joe came up on a panting horse. He slid to the 
ground and lifted his red, red eyes to the girl who stood 
in her car and gasped: 

“It's a ‘bug’ fire! Somebody’s set this on us!” 

“Set it?” 

“It didn’t come in from outside, Helen. Somebody 
drug a lot of dry bresh in offen that hardwood clearin’. 
One man, by his tracks — must’ve worked all night. He 
tetched it off twenty rod from th’ outside fire line — 
That’s what made her hot from th’ start!” 

The girl fought down her rising rage. To yield to such 
emotion now would play into the hands of this incendiary. 
She must think of no yesterday, no tomorrow; she must 
think of one thing: this fire; on time, this hour! — 

“Forget that, Joe! We’ll get him later. Side lines going 
to hold? Back fire all right? Milt there? Where’s the 
front of it now? ” 

He answered her briefly and mounted again but swung 
his horse back beside the car. 


TIMBER 


347 


“If it crosses here,” indicating the line where the back 
fire had started —“you’ve got Burned Dog swale to 
fight!” 

“I know that, Joe — and we can’t let it cross!” 

“I wasn’t tryin’ to learn you nothin’,” he said apolo- 
getically, searching her set face. 

Centuries ago when glaciers gouged out this Blueberry 
country the ridges were laid in strange patterns. Burned 
Dog Creek, a very small stream, drained a thin ribbon 
of swamp in the depth of the pine. It ran nearly due east 
until, meeting the abutment of a ridge that lay between it 
and the river, it swung sharply to the northward. But 
from the face of bluff springs seeped and for two-thirds 
of the way to its pine-crested top the balsam, which lined 
the creek, grew — If fire should go down that swale, 
igniting the balsams it would run rapidly, it would 
shoot up the inflammable cover of that bluff and mount 
the ridge with a hold in the pine tops that could not be 
denied; and then it could sweep on to the river, perhaps 
even across the Blueberry itself, destroying utterly as 
it went. 

If Goddard’s back-fire should fail! They could make 
one more stand, true, but that next line of defense dipped 
through the first of the balsam itself and if living flame 
got that far their fighting this morning would have been 
in vain! 

The draft of the conflagration sucked at the back-fire. 
It moved faster, burning clean as it went, its flame tendrils 
and smoke banners drawn against the wind by the increas- 
ing draft. The crackling had grown to a heavy mutter. 
The two ragged lines of flame drew nearer. At a hundred 
yards apart each moved as fast as a man would saunter; 


348 


TIMBER 


at half that distance they reached for one another, flutter- 
ing, sweeping across the intervening space, gathering 
both speed and height. A dull, increasing roar of ascend- 
ing air sounded beneath the pistol-like reports of burning 
wood; the yellowish, thick smoke rose as it might through 
a heated flue — Flame touched flame at the extreme 
point and that contact seemed to give the strength which 
swept the laggard portions of the lines forward even faster. 
A tongue of flame found hold in a pitch deposit on the side 
of a tree; the draft swept it upward, giving it hold, made 
it secure there. A long creeper of live fire whipped into the 
branches dragging heavier flame with it — There was a 
sound like a great, savage sigh of triumph and a sheet 
of fire rose from earth to tree crowns and with a ripping, 
tearing, wailing fury of sound the tops burst into flame — 

Trees rocked and twisted in the force of the draft. 
A mighty column of smoke spouted into the heavens, 
rising straight up, seeming uninfluenced by the wind and 
from it rained needles and twigs and small branches, all 
blazing, and from it came sounds of terror, sounds that 
went straight through the reason of strong men and 
touched raw emotions that had been buried for genera- 
tions. Fire, man’s first friend, had turned into his raging 
enemy, mighty in its wrath, terrible in its manifestation 
of power. 

Men dropped their tools and ran. Goddard raised his 
hoarse voice in command to call them back, but he could 
not be heard — they fled, scattering as the fire leaped 
the break and fastened itself in the tops of the trees they 
had sought to safeguard! Thad Parker ran down the 
line and would have gone on into the forest, heedless of 
all else except the impulse to escape this fiend, but Helen 


’ TIMBER 349 

Foraker caught him by the wrist and swung him about to 
face her. 

“Stay here!” she cried, and shook him. “I need you. 
i There’s no danger to you and we’ve got to try again! — 
Won’t you stay?” to another man, “And you? I need 
[you!” 

Others came up, singed, shaken men and assembled 
| about the car as Helen started her motor. They recovered 
j some of their balance when they saw that she was not 
; afraid. 

“Get aboard, all of you!” she cried and they scrambled 
up eagerly, for she was headed away from the monster 
that raged eighty rods from them — 

She drove through the smoke, stopping at another tool 
cache, swinging into the next fire line, half a mile to the 
eastward. The men ran forward after Goddard, axes 
and saws and shovels ready for the new attempt. The fire 
which had leaped upward and swept onward with such 
initial savagery, hesitated when it entered the trees that 
stood above cool ground. No draft held it aloft there 
and a mighty draft dragged from behind. A puff of cooler 
air slapped downward, driving a point of the fire from the 
top in which it burned to the ground. It found hold in the 
duff about the trunk — The crowns about it burned out, 
the fire dribbled to the dead needles again. Once more 
men had their chance. The fire was again a ground fire, 
no longer breaking through the canopy of tops! 

Along the new line of defense trees fell, tops into the 
forest. Axe and saw slashed and bit, leveling the outer 
rows to make the break from canopy to canopy wider — 
And to the windward of these axemen others again started 
fire to burn out and meet and check fire. 


350 


TIMBER 


Burned Dog tumbled through the pine here and just 
before it reached the fire line its current slowed as it 
settled into the head of the swale, and the pine gave up to 
balsam and spruce. , 

Men worked like mad. Goddard drove them, tense and 
ruthless. Once a man hesitated and Milt struck him 
heavily, knocking him down, kicking him toward the 
work he had indicated. None noticed. The man got to 
his feet and went at the task, the frightful sound of j 
advancing fire neutralizing his resentment. Black Joe 
was there, barking the oaths of rivermen as he drove the 
others into the work. The hot wind, rushing down the 
creek, bobbed the stiff balsams, lifted their branches up 
to expose the pitch blisters — The nodding, the beckoning 
of those trees, seemed to invite the visitation which would 
be their death. 

Back in the face of the advancing flame where the 
chemicals had again been tried, men gave up. Human 
flesh and will could not stand before that blast. 
Unhampered, the flames leaped higher, ran faster before 
the wind, spread their front wider and their growing . 
draft again picked up brands and flung them out over 
the heads of those who worked feverishly. Islands of 
fire appeared ahead of the main front. Smoke ascended 
from a dozen fresh points and men ran from place to place 
beating them out, but their strategy was disorganized, 
their forces scattered, efficiency lost. 

“All hell can’t stop it!” shouted Black Joe as he 
came up to Helen Foraker, who was dispatching fresh 
arrivals to relieve worn men. “It’ll hit that balsam and 
go down the creek to the bluff. It’ll go up that like an 
explosion!” 


TIMBER 


351 


He started away. His last words echoed in the girl’s 
consciousness, hammering at some hidden idea — 

Explosion! — “Black Joe!” her voice was shrill and he 
wheeled. “If it goes up like an explosion, can’t an 
explosion stop it?” 

“Huh? What’s—” 

“Dynamite, Joe! Dynamite!” 

“Oh, God help you, Miss Helen! God help you,” he 
cried, with a new excitement, the stimulus of a fresh hope 
in his voice. 

A car was there, its owner begging for an errand. He 
had brought men from Pancake, men who had scorned 
and scoffed at Foraker’s Folly, but fire closes breaches, 
belittles differences and those he brought were now at 
work; this man awaited the girl’s word. 

“Take Joe!” she said to him. “Push him, Joe!” 

The man sprang into his seat, glad to obey her orders. 

Across the pole bridge they tore, past the big house, 
on to a dugout in the river bank. Boxes of dynamite were 
tossed into the car, a coil of fine wire thrown in and, hold- 
ing a box of percussion caps high, Joe swore as he 
ordered the other to drive back. 

Helen left her post for she could do no good there. Men 
were wearing out, they were deserting sneaking away 
under cover of the smoke and she kept among those who 
remained, a soaked handkerchief over her mouth. The 
roar of the oncoming fire increased; it commenced to 
mutter again and the back-fire, feeling the pull of that 
hot draft, leaped and ate toward its kind — 

A sucking sound, a flapping, like an immense flag in 
a heavy puff of wind, a long-drawn wo-o-o-sh , and a great 
eddy of fire and smoke was sucked upward and scattered. 


352 


TIMBER 


It left the tops through which it had passed only singed but 
the brands it had lifted were snatched by the gale and swept 
along, falling, a thousand of them, into the balsam thicket! 

A crackling followed, like a growing, harsh laugh. A 
million matches scratching; a thousand bull whips 
popping — A ripping, a tearing — The swale was afire and 
the flame, bursting from great puffs of thick, greenish 
smoke, exploding, leaping, swept on down the creek, 
melting all that stood in its path! 

“Get Raymer!” Helen shouted, mouth close to 
Goddard’s ear. “Send him to the top of the bluff — 
and come yourself — ” 

Again she sped with her car through the smoke, reckless 
of others who might be in her path. She went up a rising 
road, hot ashes falling about her and stopped, leaping out, 
calling aloud to Black Joe. 

As well have whispered ! From the crest of the ridge she 
looked down through the smoke-screened balsams sixty 
feet below to see the inferno beyond, sending up its 
torrent of triumphant sounds: the rip and tear of flame 
banners frazzled out by their own heat, the popping, 
the snapping, now and again a sound like a gun-shot; 
a mighty, breathy wailing — and all against the back- 
ground of savage roar! 

Joe was on his knees, driving his crow bar into the brink 
of the bluff. A half-dozen others were doing likewise, 
making parallel rows of holes among the roots of those 
pines that grew above the ladder of balsam tips on which 
that fire would mount. 

' Others took up the work and Joe, relieved, ran back 
to tear open the boxes of powder. His hands trembled 
^and he had no ear for Helen. Now and then he glanced 


TIMBER 


353 


into that furnace blast from below and his lips moved 
soundlessly — Goddard joined him. 

Thad Parker ran up, gibbering, an axe in his hands. 
“It’ll burn us all!” he screamed. “We can’t get out!” 
Some one grasped and shook him, but Thad would not 
listen. His eyes were those of a mad man and the cries 
that came from his throat grew inarticulate. He bit at 
the man who held him, tried to lift the axe and swing it 
at his captor. The other staggered away and Thad 
turned and fled into the smoke — 

Joe and Milt fitted caps to the dynamite and Raymer 
came up on a gasping horse. He caught the idea at a 
word from Helen and began setting wires. It was delicate 
work, painful work under those conditions. Time spedT 
The cars were backed out and down the grade, but 
Helen gave no heed. She followed closely the men who 
were making this, her last big play. The greasy sticks 
went into the ground, one by one, tamped carefully 
in their holes along the brink. For two hundred yards 
they were planted and when the last cap was being 
adjusted the furnace blast from below tore at the crowns 
of the pine trees above them with the strength of a 
tornado. 

The girl was atremble as she settled herself beside 
Joe and the coil box behind a tree trunk, prostrate 
on the ground, screening her face with her hands from 
the heat. She could not speak, could not think, could 
hear nothing but that crescendoing roar from below. 
Black Joe crouched on his knees, skin blistering through 
his shirt, peered over the brink. He saw a streamer of 
flame leap upward through the broiling heat waves, 
wrenching at balsams as it seared them, saw another 


354 


TIMBER 


fork stab out, saw a solid wall of fire flutter and hesitate 
and then wrap about the topmost balsams, clinging 
there a split instant before it made its last leap — its 
leap into the pine above. 

Through that bedlam of terror, Helen’s voice cut like 
a knife: “Now Joe!” 

She was thrown from her knees to her face because 
as that sheet of flame gathered itself for its jump into the 
pine tops, the whole bluff belched out to meet it! A 
thousand tons of loose sand were flung into the face of the 
fire. Outward and up and down, it struck, more vicious 
than the heat in its path, more powerful than the flame. 
Trees on the brink rocked as the root holds that had 
endured throughout their life gave way. They swayed 
and twisted and three, one after the other, toppled over 
into that smoking maw ! — 

Smoking maw! The flame was gone. As a puff of 
breath will extinguish a candle, so that blast had 
blown life from the fire. For yards, the balsam that 
had blazed was smothered with dry sand. For rods, 
the fire was stripped clean from wood where it had found 
hold. The point of the fire was broken, gone. It was no 
longer in the balsam tops, no longer a menace to the 
pine above. It had consumed as it went; there was 
nothing left in the path of that which had escaped the full 
force of the explosion to feed upon. It would burn for 
days, perhaps, but it was down there, disorganized, 
where men could seize upon and fight it! 

“Oh, God A’mighty!” cried Black Joe. “If Paul 
Bunion could ‘a’ saw that!” 

“Herd back that crew!” choked Helen. “We can hold 
it, now!” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


Thad Parker had fled frantically from the monster 
that unbalanced his mind. Axe clutched in his hands 
he raced through the forest, looking back now and then 
as though fearful of some terrible presence peering over 
his shoulder, tripping, stumbling, falling, rising and 
keeping on, breath making sounds like those from a 
distressed animal. He came out into a fire line and 
followed it, turning at an intersection. His flight became 
a feeble flounder and once when he fell he did not try 
to rise until he had crawled a dozen yards, clinging to 
his axe, whimpering. He crossed the bridge and followed 
the ruts toward the Foraker house. He did not hear 
Bobby and Bessy crying, did not heed the sharp questions 
flung at him by Aunty May, did not see Luke Taylor 
standing at a corner of the building, leaning on his stick 
and staring into the smoke. He went on along the road 
that led to Seven Mile, away from the demon that was 
ever at his heels. 

A car rounded a curve and bore down upon him. 
Parker stopped, swaying an the middle of the road, 
eyes fast on the figure at the wheel which grew rapidly 
distinguishable as the car came through the murk. The 
motor was four lengths away. Its horn sounded 
impatiently. The man at the wheel made a gesture 
for Parker to step out of his way and then reached for 
his emergency brake, bending low and cursing as Thad 
gave no ground. 


355 


356 


TIMBER 


Parker moved, but did not step aside. He lurched 
forward. He swung the axe above his head thrice, as a 
hammer thrower whirls his weight. He let it go and 
doubled quickly, with a shriek of crazy mirth. Glass 
of the wind shield splintered explosively. Wilcox, beside 
the driver, cried out. Bert Wales and Wes Hubbard, 
in the back seat, threw up their arms against the glass 
slivers — then rose and leaned forward. 

Jim Harris made no sound. His hand retained its 
grasp on the brake and he sagged forward over the wheel, 
a great, limp hulk; the axe dropped to the floor and the 
purpling patch behind his ear sent out its first thin ooze 
of blood. The others lifted him out of the seat as a roadster 
stopped behind them and Dr. Pelly, Humphrey Bryant 
and John Taylor got out and gathered about the prostrate 
Harris. 

There was little blood, but Harris’ breathing w T as fast 
and heavy and as the physician, kneeling on the sand, 
touched the bruise with light fingers they saw the broken 
bone stir beneath discoloring skin. 

“ Isn’t that bad, doctor?” Wilcox was the first to 
speak and Pelly nodded. 

“As good as dead.” 

The smoke-laden wind sobbed in the trees above them. 
For a moment there was no other sound and then Thad 
Parker’s weak, faltering voice rose in a thin wail, half 
fright, half triumph. 

“Dead! Dead? And I killed him? Before God, I 
killed him with my hands! I killed him, and he killed 
my wife, my hope — I — I — ” 

He whirled and would have run again, but hands 
clutched him. He struggled and shouted and laughed. 


TIMBER \ 357 

>k ^ 

“Get him into a car and to town, ” said the physician. 
“Stark mad!” 

Wales and Hubbard led Thad away and sat beside him 
on the cushioned seat, holding him there, as he leaned 
forward and whispered. 

Philip Rowe came running from the house and old 
Luke Taylor himself moved down the road to join the 
group. A third car stopped and five men got out. 

And one more, trundling an ancient bicycle through 
the forest, halted and made as if to draw back when he 
came into view of those others. But he did not go back. 
Charley Stump stood there, stroking the bent handle 
bars. The group about the unconscious figure shifted; 
Charley could see Jim Harris’ face. He left his safety 
and moved forward timidly. He stood behind them, 
listening; he saw the doctor shake his head hopelessly; 
he heard young Wilcox mutter as he turned away. Charley 
dropped to his knees, hands clasped, staring down into 
Harris’ face. 

“Jim?” His husky voice rose uncertainly. “You 
ain’t dead? Jim? — ” He looked about, bewilderment 
in his pale, witless eyes. “He ain’t goin’ to die is he?” 
in appeal to the doctor. “Jim can’t die now, doc, can 
he? — He was goin’ to give me tires.” He looked 
anxiously from face to face. “Tires for my safety — 
Jim, you can’t die, Jim!” He lifted trembling, blackened 
hands and looked about, at Pelly, at Rowe, at Luke 
Taylor — 

A movement, and young John stepped through the 
group and there was that in his face and manner which 
was electric, which made men wait for him to speak, 
there in the smoke of fire and the shadow of death. 


358 


TIMBER 


“ Tires, Charley ?” he asked. “He was going to give 
you tires for what?” 

On that question the old man rose. “ Nothin V’ he 
whimpered. “He wasn’t going to give me nothin’!” 

He started to edge away, but John stepped before him, 
stooping to stare close into his face. 

“Yes he was, Charley. Tell these men what you did 
to earn those tires!” 

“No, no!” trying to tear his eyes from that insistent 
gaze. 

The old man stared about, sniffing, breath very fast, 
eyes hunted. He looked at John again and shook his 
head, but there was no conviction about the gesture 
and as Taylor started to speak he cried out : 

“Oh, I didn’t want to! He made me — said I’d go to 
jail if I didn’t set that fire.” A stir; added tension, as 
the group became more compact. 

“And what else? That’s only a part of it. What else, 
Charley? Where were you the night the logs burned, the 
night the dam went out?” 

“Oh, I didn’t — he made me! — he said I’d go to jail! 
He told me I would if I didn’t set fire to her logs an’ drive 
spikes in some an’ blow up her dam. He told me that!” 
He looked down at the unconscious man at his feet and 
clasped trembling hands. “He made me!” throwing 
those hands wide for mercy. “I didn’t want to, but he 
made me — he — he — ” 

Charley looked about again as his voice died to a 
whisper. His roving gaze set itself on Phil Rowe’s face. 
The man quailed and started to move away. 

“Hold on, Phil!” It was Taylor again and after a 
moment: “What else, Charley? Who else threatened you?” 


TIMBER 


359 


Slowly one of the withered arms rose, an unsteady, 
gnarled finger half pointing. The accusation came in a 
half whisper. 

“Him!” halting the finger to indicate Rowe. “He 
come th’ first time — they both told me Fd go to jail 
if I — ” 

“It’s a lie! He’s crazy!” Rowe’s denial, sharp and 
panicky, broke the tension. Men moved. 

“It is no lie!” Taylor elbowed through them to be 
near Rowe. “You’ve gotten away with your last lie, 
your last piece of blackmail in this deal, Phil! Do you 
think I’ve been asleep? I’ve been just a lap behind you 
for days, you rat!” 

Humphrey Bryant moved to where he could see John’s 
face. 

“I’ve got enough on you Rowe, to keep you busy from 
now on! Harris, there, may be lucky — ” John looked 
about, breathing deeply in anger and saw Henry Wales 
and Wes Hubbard staring at him from the car, where 
they held the mumbling Thad. “And may be others 
will wish they were dead before I’m through!” 

His eyes ran over the faces before him and came to 
rest on his father’s. His shoulders slacked and he shook 
his head rather sorrowfully. “These are the things you 
have done,” he said, spreading his hands. “This is 
why I have had to fight you.” 

His anger was gone; he looked pityingly at his father. 
For a moment their gazes clung, the old man’s sharp and 
defensive — before something faded in his eyes. He 
looked from his son to Charley Stump who stood shaking 
with fright and it seemed as though between the two was 
more than the bond of age: the communion of trouble, 


360 


TIMBER 


of guilt. Luke caught his breath as though to answer. 
But he did not speak. He half turned to confront his 
bookkeeper and then moved away, walking slowly, cane 
thrusting deep into the sand. 

There was shifting, voices lifted; questions, oaths, 
excited laughter. Humphrey Bryant’s hand went out 
and grasped Taylor’s arm, clenching there tightly in a 
pressure which meant all, but he only said: “We came 
to help, and we’re wasting time — now. ” 

They moved, starting for their cars. And then a heavy 
detonation broke through the forest, balking the very 
wind, it seemed. They halted and faced its direction. 
“ Dynamite!” said somebody. “ Let’s get on!” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


It was late afternoon. All day the men who took 
orders from Helen Foraker had held the fire to the limits 
set down by the great blast. It burned briskly, hotly, 
but it was within their grasp and could not get away. 
The wind blew steadily and there was still danger in 
letting up until above the shouts and the snap of burning 
wood, the moan of trees that had been saved, came a 
heavy shaking boom of thunder. Through the thick smoke 
scattering rain drops fell, sending up little puffs of dust 
in the fire line. The wind dropped, the thin shower 
abated, stopped, and then with a fresh gust it came in 
a hissing, drenching torrent with lightning gashing the 
murk and thunder ripping open new clouds heavy with 
moisture. In ten minutes the ruts of the road ran water. 

Drenched, her face streaked with grime, eyes smarting, 
weak from effort and strain, the girl entered her kitchen. 
Aunty May met her in the doorway. 

“You're a sight!" she cried. “But this rain’ll fix it, 
an’ I’m glad you’re here!’’ Helen took off her hat wearily 
and made no response. “He’s in there yet,’’ gesturing 
toward the front room. 

“He? — Who?’’ 

“That old devil!’’ eyes snapping. “I heard what he 
had to say this mornin’. He’s stayed here all day. All 
durin’ the fire he had Injun kids from th’ mill running 
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362 


TIMBER 


back an’ forth to tell him about it, givin' 'em his dirty 
dollars!" 

Helen's face showed amazement through its weariness. 

“I told 'em both to go, but he won't. He made that 
there Rowe go out and set in th' car in th 7 rain. He's 
mad at him, called him awful names! I tried to make him 
go, too, but he just said he'd go when you come. You'd 
better send him away, Helen; he makes me uneasy!" 

The girl opened the door and looked into the other 
room. It was dark, like the last of evening twilight. 
Lightning played through the damp shadows and the 
roar of rain was terrific. Luke Taylor was in the chair 
she had drawn out for him that morning. He seemed 
more shrunken, more feeble as he sat far down on his 
spine, knees bent sharply. He was not aware that she 
was there until she stood beside him; then his hands 
which had been tapping the chair arms stopped upraised. 
The girl did not speak and Luke rose slowly, peering 
close into her face as a protracted flicker of lightning 
showed it in sharp relief. 

“That old she-devil tried to drive me out," he said. 
“Maybe I've got something like that coming, but I 
wouldn't go — not for her. I’ve turned hell loose on you, 
I guess. From what I hear you've got a long story to 
listen to." He paused and his lips worked. 

“You're full of moonshine," he rasped. “This is all 
damned nonsense, but you're makin' a go of it! You 
ain't got brass or cheek, like I said — just nerve — 
nerve!" He paused once more and still she did not speak. 

“That matter you spoke to me about, that money 
you need — it’s all nonsense, all moonshine! When 
you got to have it?" 


TIMBER 


363 


j She was numb; her knees were giving; she said flatly: 
“Now — soon — within ten days.” 

He sniffed. “Fll take a chance with you; I’ll invest 
in a little moonshine — because you’ve got a nerve, and 
because you — because you’re makin’ a go of it!” He 
said that last as though the words hurt him, as though it 
was gall to admit her success. “I’ll let you have the thirty, 
and I’ll fix it so’s you can get more — when you need it; 
whenever you need it. But I’ve got to get a new book- 
-keeper first!” 

She closed her eyes. She heard him grumbling more 
as he buttoned his coat close. 

“Oh, I thank you — I thank you — ” 

“Don’t thank me!” he snapped. He was at the door, 
opening it, to let the roar of rain and forest in on them. 
“You get it — ” he moved back a step, “on one condi- 
tion. ” 

She nodded. 

“An’ that is that you’ll let me come up here when I 
damn please — an’ listen to ’em talk — an’ listen — 
You’re full of moonshine, but maybe you’re right — about 
that four million a year — ” 

Something like a catch of breath checked him. He 
turned abruptly and went out into the rain. She saw 
him crawl through the curtains of the car, saw the white 
face of Phil Rowe as he started the motor. She turned 
to the mantel and lifted her face to the shadowed photo- 
graph of her father. 

“All over,” she whispered, and laughed shortly. 
“Saved — Foraker’s Folly is respected — We’ve won 
father! We’ve — ” 

Thunder crashed, the rain abated, as though for 


364 


TIMBER 


breath, and came anew, the downpour rising in spume 
from the sod outside. 

“Won? — Oh, father, I’ve lost!” 

It was there that Aunty May found her, hands clasped, 
staring blankly before her. She was not crying, had not 
cried; it would have been better so; the suffering in her 
face would not have been so terrible had it found the 
relief of tears. The older woman stopped shortly. 

“Helen! What is it?” 

But she needed no reply. The old arms which for years 
had gestured only in irritation went about her hungrily; 
the old voice which had been so sour and sharp whispered 
softly in her ear. Helen turned and put her arms about 
the woman’s neck and put her head wearily on a bony 
shoulder. 

“There; there, I heard what he said. It’s all over. 
You’ve come out on top of th’ heap!” 

“Oh, Aunty May — it is over — I drove him away; 
I didn’t trust. I didn’t take happiness — when it came — 
He’s fought for me even when I suspected him — and I 
can’t ever look into his face again — ” 

They sat down together in the big chair, Aunty May 
holding Helen on her lap, talking gently to her, tears 
in her own eyes, trying to provoke tears for the girl. 
But Helen talked in short, stiff sentences of her helpless- 
ness, the emptiness of her triumph. She had won her big 
fight but she had lost the joy of life. 

The last light faded. Rain continued, a veritable 
cloudburst. Helen went to her room and bathed and 
dressed, cleansing herself mechanically. Downstairs 


TIMBER 


363 


Humphrey Bryant waited for her, waited with serious 
old eyes, leaning downward in his chair, tapping a foot 
rhythmically. He had so much to tell! 

Night. 

A lull in the rain. 

Aunty May hung up her dishpan and draped the clean 
cloth over it. When she had wiped her hands she wiped 
her eyes. 

She stood a long time in the doorway, peering at the 
lights in the men’s shanty where a grimed crew talked of 
that day’s fight and of Helen Foraker. A figure moved 
outside. 

“Hey!” she called, in a cracking voice. The figure 
paused. “Send Joe here.” 

He came, scuttling through the fresh torrent and 
paused on the step and looked up at the woman with 
shock in his eyes. 

“Black Joe, come in here!” she said impatiently. 

He stepped inside, incredulous; for the first time in 
two decades she had addressed him! 

“You’ve been wrong,” she said. “You’ve been wrong 
for twenty years, you stubborn old devil! But I’ve had 
a lesson today — I — ” brushing angrily at her eyes. 
“I’ve saw what misunderstanding lead to. You’re 
wrong, but I give in, Joe. That’s a woman’s way; to 
give in, to yield, to take the blame. But I’ll do it. 1 ain’t 
a body to let things run along until they get serious!” 

His face grew alive with amazement, with hope. He stared 
at her as she dabbed at her eyes with an apron corner. 

“Well, you old fool, ain’t you ever goin’ to speak?”, 
she cried. 


366 


TIMBER 


“May? — May?” 

Awkwardly he put a hand to her shoulder and her arms 
went about him. 

For a long time they stood in embrace, hearts racing 
as they pumped out the bitterness and brought in new 
life, new hope. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


It was the second day after the fire. All yesterday 
it had rained, but at evening, just as the light was fading, 
clouds broke and a crimson sunset touched the trees 
with a blaze of jeweled glory. 

This morning had dawned fair, the air was clean from 
the great fall of rain, wind came in from the northwest, 
brisk and cool, dazzling white clouds sped across a dazzling 
blue sky. Only the river was unclean; red and roiled 
and high, it rushed savagely down its course, swollen 
beyond precedent. 

In Pancake Jim Harris lay in the Commercial House, 
swimming back to half -consciousness. Dr. Pelly had been 
constantly at his bedside since the operation. This 
morning he left, to go home and sleep. 

In the office of the hotel he met Humphrey Bryant. 

“ How's the boss of Blueberry County?” he asked, 
with a wan grin. 

The editor’s tongue roved his lips. 

“Well, Rowe’s out on bail and half the supervisors are 
scurrying around trying to find out where lightning will 
strike next.” He chuckled and sobered. “How is he?” 

The doctor slipped a morsel of plug tobacco into his 
mouth and winked. “Better’n a hypo, Hump. 

“Jim? Well, he’s a sick man, but since yesterday I’ve 
begun to think that Pelly’s a damned good surgeon.” 
He spit at a cuspidor and a smile of pride wrinkled his 
face. “Another thing, Hump, I’d rather see a live stinker 
367 


368 


TIMBER 


taking his mortal and certain medicine than a dead one 
going to a hell fire that’s largely theoretical!” 

They went out together. 

“Thad?” asked Pelly as they parted. “ He’ll clear up 
all right, so far’s his mind goes. His heart though — 
you can’t mend broken hearts like we can a busted skull — 
That’s one reason I want Harris to get well — I’m a 
vengeful cuss, I guess.” 

Helen was at her desk, busy with figures — ostensibly. 
A letter written in Luke Taylor’s scrawl was before her, 
paper limp from much handling. She read his promises 
of aid again and looked out the window and down the 
road as she had been looking for an hour, ever since John 
Taylor telephoned from the mill. 

“I am coming for a final settlement,” he had said. 
“The last car of lumber will go out tonight.” 

His final settlement! With all the relief that should 
have been in the girl’s heart there was no rest. She had 
won; with Luke Taylor’s backing there was no chance for 
her to lose now; she had put herself into a pinch on a 
theory; fire had laid waste to a full section of her timber. 
But there would never be incendiarism again, there would 
be no lack of working capital to tide her over until 
Foraker’s Folly could function — 

And yet there was only pain reflected in her face. 
She saw him coming down the road, walking slowly. 
He rapped and she opened the door for him. Confusion 
was on each and after the greeting they avoided looking 
at one another. 

“Here is the statement from the mill,” she said. “Is 
that right?” 


TIMBER 


369 


He glanced at the totals. 

“ Right,” he said, and drew out a check book. 

He wrote slowly, painstakingly, as though it required 
effort to hold his hand steady. She watched him, with 
her heart high in her throat, hampering her breathing. 
The number — the date — the amount in script — 
in figures — his name — to the last period. 

That was all. It was all over, now, for he was handing 
the check to her and rising, reaching for his hat. She 
looked at the slip of paper but could not read. 

“That concludes our contract,” he was saying, “That 
and my thanks — ” 

They faced one another. Her eyes went to his beseechingly. 

“Thanks? My thanks are due to you,” she said. 

“No, I — I feel as though I were testifying in a revival. 
You have done a great deal for me. I came up here a — 
I didn’t amount to much. I have learned this: that I 
know very little; and perhaps that is the first step in 
finding out things. 

“I think you are the biggest person I have ever met,” 
very humbly, and almost shyly, as though his words 
were presumptuous. “You have opened my eyes, you 
have set me straight. 

“I made you so much trouble. I didn’t mean to, but 
it was because I was ignorant and didn’t know it. I’m 
so sorry.” He paused and flushed as he mustered his 
courage. “I was presumptuous. I — I aspired to things 
that were quite beyond me.” 

He was letting her out easily, he was doing his best 
to cover the hurt that her error had caused them both! 
He was going now. She was conscious that he moved 
toward the door as though in haste. She followed. 


370 


TIMBER 


“It was I who made the mistake,” she said. “I — 
Anything that menaced my forest menaced me. I couldn’t 
see — beyond that pine.” 

They were outside, the girl on the bottom step. He 
was going out of her life because once she had driven 
him away unjustly. She looked up at the pine trees which 
seemed so inconsequential now, to have so little meaning. 
He was denying what she had said, he was humbling 
himself to make her suffering easy. 

His hand was outstretched and she looked at it vaguely 
and placed hers in it. 

“Good-bye,” he said. “Good-bye and good luck.” 

She could not speak. It was an affront to beg forgive- 
ness; she had done the unpardonable; what she had today 
he had given her; what he was taking out of her life — 
she was to blame for that. 

“Good-bye,” she said. 

She could not see his face twitch as he turned away. 
She stood looking after him, holding her hand outstretched 
as he had released it. 

Pauguk at the end of her chain whined and bared her 
fangs. 

Helen turned into the house. It seemed that there was 
no warmth in her body — 

Milt Goddard, working on the motor of her car, watched. 
He was at a distance, could not hear their words, but he 
could see their faces and their postures. That was farewell 
to them, but the big woodsman knew that it was no 
farewell. He saw that the impulse which could never be 
shattered so long as life endures was in their hearts. He 
knew that though John Taylor was disappearing down 
the trail that skirted the fringe of swamp and made a 


TIMBER 


371 


short cut to the mill, he was not leaving Helen Foraker. 
Taylor was gone, but he would be back — that, or the 
girl would follow him down that trail some day, to the 
ends of the earth if necessary; she was that sort — 

He dropped his wrench. The screen door slammed 
behind Helen. The wind lulled. Pauguk was whining, 
straining, eyes on the trail Taylor had taken. 

For a long interval Goddard stood there, tie tried 
to resume his work, but could not. The rage in his heart 
grew unbearable and after a time he moved away toward 
the house, going slowly, silently, on the balls of his feet. 
The wolf dog turned a quick look at him and glared back 
at the way her enemy had gone. He spoke softly to her, 
snapping his thumb. He grasped her chain, letting it 
slip through his fingers as he advanced. His hand rested 
on her back and his fingers fumbled at the snap. 

The wolf was free ! She was starting forward, crouching, 
bewildered by this liberty. She dropped her nose to the 
ground, she went forward, at a walk, at a trot, she reached 
the edge of the pine; stopped, circled, started on; the 
trot gave to a gallop and then through the forest echoed 
the long-drawn hunting cry of her forebears. 

Inside the house, a movement, an exclamation. Helen 
Foraker appeared in the doorway. She saw Goddard, 
the chain in his hands, and as she cried out to him that 
long, curdling cry came again, fainter, reverberating 
through the trees. 

“Milt! What — ” 

Guilty fright swept his face. “He'd ’ve come back,” 
he said. “He’d ’ve come back an’ you — ” 

“Milt, she’ll kill him! — You murderer!” 

She started toward the trail, calling the dog breathlessly 


372 


TIMBER 


and stopped and faced about. Goddard was running 
frantically away from her, looking over his shoulder, 
stumbling across the nursery, seeking the shelter of cover, 
of distance. 

Again the hunting cry — and again, more distant, 
fading away. 

“Oh, God help me!” the girl cried. “I can’t let her — 
I can’t—” 

And then she knew that while her voice and reason 
had said farewell to John Taylor her heart expected his 
return. But now — death sped on his trail! 

She looked about wildly. An unrooted tree, caught in 
the current, was floating past and her eyes followed it 
with strange fascination as it sped in the white foam. 
It was going that way — the way he had gone — 

She did not cry out again but leaped down the bank 
to where her canoe lay, bottom up. She lifted it in her 
slender arms, made mighty by that danger. She dropped 
it into the current; she dipped the paddle deep. The 
bow shot out and swung downstream, and kneeling in 
the bottom, sending the gunwale to the water’s edge with 
every stroke, she drove forward, speeding before the 
speeding flood. 

The trail Taylor had taken kept close to the river for 
a distance, then swung sharply to the left, shirting a 
widening area of swamp; for half a mile it circled, edging 
back toward the stream, coming out at an old rollway and 
then holding straight through the timber toward the mill 
as the river swung away. 

That was her one chance; to beat the wolf to the 
landing. If she should fail in that she would be behind 
them and helpless — and Taylor would be helpless before 


TIMBER 


373 


the savage fangs of that animal. She passed the floating 
tree, left it behind rapidly, sending her canoe forward 
with all the skill at her command, with all the strength 
which fear gave her body. Water boiled about the bow, 
deep eddies fell backward from her frantic paddle to be 
swallowed in the froth of the eager current. 

She swept down a straight stretch of stream, between 
ranks of reeds and spires of drowned cedar. Far to her 
left was the path Taylor had taken, far to the left of her 
raced Pauguk — How fast? How far? She could not 
reason, could not calculate. Two days ago she had been 
keyed to great danger, to great activities. She had been 
able to think then, with great clarity, great rapidity but 
the thing at stake that day was her property, her pride, 
her devotion to her father’s ideal. Then it had been 
timber and its related possessions. Today it was a man 
and her heart at stake — and there was no ability to 
think or plan. Her breath was fast and loud in her throat. 
She prayed brokenly — 

She approached a jam, where brush and snags had 
lodged. She crossed the current toward the opening 
where water boiled through. She cried out when she saw 
the stout broken branches of a dead tree in the froth, 
reaching up to tear the bottom from her canoe. She tried 
to stop, to back, to make land, but could not fight the 
pull of the current. She felt the impact, saw the bottom 
of her frail craft bulge as it struck the half submerged 
tree; saw the bulge run backward toward her, felt the 
hard pressure of the snag against her knee — and she 
was through, gasping, cold — but safe, and only a 
trickle of water coming through the scratched skin of 
the canoe — 


374 


TIMBER 


Time! Time! The current seemed to lose its swiftness. 
Her canoe lagged; she roused herself to even greater 
effort and still her progress seemed sluggish. The muscles 
of back and shoulder were tearing loose under the terrific 
strain so she changed sides with her paddle and the 
change helped for a moment — and then she moved on as 
if propelling an awkward craft in dead water. 

She could not realize that she swept past the banks 
in a magnificent rush; did not know that she was driving 
that canoe as it had never been driven before; did not 
understand that, roused to this pitch, all the savagery 
of the current was in her favor, shoving her, making her 
skim with incredible speed. 

On the far side of the swamp John Taylor walked 
rapidly, hands driven deep into his pockets, head thrust 
forward. His mind did not function; it was numb, 
plastic, and he was conscious only of the heaviness of spirit, 
the hopelessness that had been on him — forever, it 
seemed. There had been no glory in his bringing Rowe 
and Harris and the others to answer for what they had 
done; there had been no sense of reward in knowing that 
he had thwarted the menace which he had brought upon 
Helen Foraker. He owed her that much — and more; 
so much more that he could never balance the account. 

He was going away, he knew not where; he would begin 
again, with a new sense of values, a better balance, the 
caution which makes men stable. But he had no heart or 
strength to plan. He wanted only to be away and forget — 

Far behind him came the wolf dog. Her eyes were very 
bright, her tongue lolled as excitement fevered her blood. 
Ever since that day when Taylor had struck her the 
impulse to hunt him down and make him pay had been 


TIMBER 


375 


strong when her nostrils told her that he was near. And 
now she was free, for the first time since puppyhood, 
and her senses were functioning in her initial hunt. 

She was unschooled in trailing. She lost the easy scent 
a dozen times before she understood that eyes could help 
as well as nose and that birds and rabbits which had 
crossed the trail were of no moment. She had started 
out at a gallop; her pace slowed to a restrained trot; 
she ceased leaving the scent of the man; she went faster 
again; her voice lifted in greater assurance. She became 
confident, as instinct shaped itself. She broke again 
into a lope, racing on silent feet along the trail. Her fangs 
dripped slaver and her breath came in eager hoarseness, 
for the scent was stronger, in the air, now, as well as on 
the earth. She was closing for her vengeance! 

Out in the river Helen rounded a sharp bend where 
the current flung itself at an unyielding bank, water 
boiling as she kept her broaching canoe from the smart 
eddy against the land. She straightened away and 
height loomed before her, faced with yellow sand — 
Along that landing passed the trail. 

She cried out again for time — Or was she now too late? 
Had he passed? Had the wolf passed, too? Were they 
even then on combat somewhere yonder? 

A mist dimmed her eyes and she shook her head to 
clear them, for she could not waste the movement of a 
hand. She rode high in the canoe, now; her stroke was 
ragged. The rollway rushed at her. She lurched forward 
as the bow touched the sand and the stern swung down- 
stream. She stumbled into the water and floundered up 
the bank, heedless of her canoe which went on down with 
the current. 


376 


TIMBER 


She struggled up the sand bluff, fighting for strength, 
mounted the overhanging rim of sod at the top, paddle 
in her hand. The trail was there, pitted by yesterday’s 
deluge. 

And a man’s footprints, fresh — and none else! She 
heard her voice screaming for him — And then heard 
another voice, that hunting cry, coming down the wind. 
She had been in time — ! She started forward as the wolf 
appeared, racing toward her through the cool shadows. 

“Pauguk!” she cried. “Pauguk!” 

The animal’s sharp nose lifted, her bloodshot eyes 
met the girl’s. The lope dropped to a trot; she faltered, 
swung off — 

“Pauguk! Come here!” 

For an instant it was as though her command had 
struck through the roused impulses of the animal, as 
though Helen’s control through years of captivity would 
hold now. In that fraction of time the wolf hesitated, 
one forefoot lifted, nose quirking, and then the fangs 
which had been covered in that brief period bared again 
and a ragged snarl of defiance came from the throat. 

The dog stiffened, gathered and with a roar rushed 
toward her mistress to pass between her and the river 
and be again on that hot trail. 

She came on, as the girl ran to head her off, gathering 
speed swiftly. And then the paddle swung hastily and 
the blade came down on the creature’s head; it slivered 
and was useless as implement or weapon but it had turned 
the animal, swung her about and though she scrambled, 
raging against the impetus of the blow, she went over 
the rim of sod, down into the sand. 

She struck her forefeet down stiffly- gasping as she 


TIMBER 


377 


fought against the slide and turned on the soft footing 
of the slope. 

She faced about, raging, clawing to scramble upward, 
and as she made her first lunge a shout came to them from 
down the trail and John Taylor, arrested by Helen’s cry, 
ran through the trees. All sounds from the wolf ceased; 
all her strength went into those swift short leaps upward. 
Her eyes showed an orange glare, froth gathered on her 
lips and hate was there not only for the man, now, but 
for the girl. 

Helen hurled the broken paddle at the wolf and missed. 
She drew back, screaming a warning to Taylor. 

The head of the animal appeared above the rim. She 
raised herself on her hind legs to scratch with paws for 
the hold that would bring her to their level, and then 
Helen, backing in fright, stumbled over the dead branch 
of a pine. It was as long as her body, as thick as her arm. 

“Stay back!” she cried to Taylor. “Stay back!” 

Pauguk found hold with her paws. One hind foot 
clawed for added grip. She strained, head flung back, 
froth on her breast. She raised herself and quivering with 
the effort to hold her balance, she heaved forward and 
was up, turning, drawing her haunches forward for that 
last rush. 

The tough branch lifted high, poised, and driven by all 
the strength in Helen’s body, crashed down. 

Its point of contact was the wolf’s skull. It cut short 
the shrill yelp of exultation. It checked flight, it struck 
the beast down. She tried to hold to the brink as she 
swayed from her feet, and then went over, head and tail 
limp, rolling over and over, coming to rest at the bottom, 
head submerged in the current, a shapeless, lifeless body. 


378 


TIMBER 


The cudgel dropped from the girl’s hands and she lifted 
them to her face, covering her eyes. 

Taylor was beside her. She heard his excited questions, 
felt his hand on her arm. 

“Milt turned her loose,” she said brokenly. “He 
turned her loose on your trail — He said you — He said 
that you would come back — and he didn’t want you to 
come back — ever — ” 

He was so still that she lowered her hands and looked 
up. 

“He said that I would come back?” he asked steadily. 
She nodded, mute before his manner. He took one of her 
hands in his roughly and something like great rage swept 
into his eyes. “And you came after me, to save me from 
Pauguk?” 

“Y-yes,” very lightly. 

“Why did you do that?” hoarse voice rising in pitch. 

“She’d have killed you!” 

“Yes — And then — ?” 

“Killed you, John — And then you never could have 
come back!” 

She felt the grip of his hand relax; a great breath slipped 
from him. 

“You wanted me back?” he whispered. “Wanted me 
back — after all? ” 

“Oh, I wanted you back because of all, John! Because 
I — because I — Can’t you see that I — ” 

His arms, binding about her body, drove the word 
from her lips — against his lips — and she was crying for 
the first time in those weeks of distress, because there was 
no distress then, no misgiving, no unhappiness, and she 
could cry — for the happiness that swelled in her heart. 


TIMBER 


379 


Behind them the Blueberry hurled itself at the high 
bank and above, between them and the clouds that sped 
across the brilliant sky, the canopy of pine trees that 
would never be of the past spread their peaceful shadow 
over the two, like a blessing. 


The Ehd 


























